It Gets Worse
by ack1308
Summary: This is a Taylor Hebert centric story, starting just after the locker. Details after that are sketchy ...
1. Chapter 1

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part One: Introduction

* * *

 **January 3, 2011**

* * *

Taylor huddled, shivering, holding the blanket around her shoulders. Nearby, the janitor was talking animatedly to a pair of police officers, but she wasn't really listening.

"- dunno how long she was in there. She was just lucky that I was going that way and heard her calling out -"

"Miss, can you hear me?" It was the same paramedic who had given her the blanket. "Miss?"

"Uh?" She jerked her head up. "Yeah? W-what?"

"Miss, can you tell me your name?"

Taylor twitched, pulling the blanket more tightly around herself. "T-taylor. Taylor He-hebert."

"Taylor Hebert. Is that correct?"

"Y-yeah. Why am I sh-shivering? Not cold."

The paramedic's voice was warm, soothing. "You've just been through a very traumatic experience, Taylor. You're in shock right now. This is perfectly natural. You'll get through it. Now, can you look into this light for me?"

She didn't protest as the woman shone the tiny flashlight first into one eye and then the other; it seemed easier just to let her do it.

"Okay then, that's excellent. Pupil response is normal. Taylor, can you tell me today's date?"

Taylor blinked. "Uh, January. January third. Two thousand eleven. First day of school."

"Good, good. And where are you?"

"Sitting in the back of an ambulance." The response came out without her even thinking about it. "Outside Winslow High School."

"Well, you're tracking just fine, Taylor." The paramedic nodded to herself in satisfaction. "Do you feel up to talking to the police?"

Taylor twitched again. "Uh, can I have my Dad with me?" She looked down at the horrible stains on her jeans and sneakers – the things that had been sharing the locker with her had been scrubbed away, but the marks remained – and added, "And can I have a shower too?"

The paramedic smiled, looking rather motherly. "I think that can be arranged, yes."

* * *

Showered, dried and dressed, head to toe in fresh clothing, Taylor felt much more human. More able to face the world. She guessed that she was still in shock; occasionally she shivered and her hands twitched once in a while. There were clean white dressings on them, where she had beaten them bloody on the interior of the locker. A kindly policewoman had replaced the dressings after the shower.

Now she sat beside her father, facing another police officer. The man's uniform was neat, tidy, almost painfully so. He had a notebook, in which he wrote down what Taylor was telling him. It was no great hardship for him to keep up with her; she kept stumbling, losing track, going back over what had already been said, but he showed no impatience, no irritation. She got the impression that his entire life's purpose was to sit in this room and listen to what she had to say.

"Well then," he stated, after she had mumbled herself to a halt. "We will be investigating matters. The fact that you can't state with certainty who shoved you into the locker is unfortunate, but the fact remains that a crime _has_ been committed and we _will_ be looking into it."

He stood; Taylor's father took the hint and followed suit. Taylor realised what was going on a few seconds later and stood up as well. "So what happens now?" she asked, surprising herself with her boldness.

"Well, if I were you," suggested the officer, "I'd take a week off school. Rest, relax, recuperate. You've had a huge shock to the system. You don't need to be going back into that environment for a little while yet."

Danny nodded. "I think that's a damn good idea. I'll let the school know, just after I give them a piece of my mind for letting this happen to Taylor in the first place."

"That's your business, sir," the police officer told him. "If we have any more questions to ask your daughter, we'll be in touch."

"Sure," Danny agreed. "I'm just surprised that there's going to be an investigation at all. I mean, I know how overworked you guys are and this sort of thing has to be small potatoes compared to your normal run of things."

"Normally we wouldn't," agreed the officer, opening the office door. "But as luck would have it, one of our major cases fell through this morning and your case popped at just the right time. Besides, I've got a girl about your daughter's age and I'd hate to have something like that happen to her."

"Well, however it works, I hope you catch those little shits." Danny held out his hand.

"That's what we're here for." The officer shook it. "You go get better, miss."

"Thank you." Taylor turned and walked from the police station with her father beside her.

"Well, that went better than I expected," he commented as he led the way to the car. "What do you want to do now?"

"I want to go home," she told him firmly. "And have about three more showers. I can still feel those bugs on my skin."

"Home it is," he agreed.

* * *

 **January 10, 2011**

* * *

"Holy shit. I don't believe it."

"What?" Madison looked around at Emma's startled exclamation. Her eyes widened. "Crap, I don't either. She's back."

"Who's back?" Sophia looked up from the drinking fountain. Taller than most, she scanned the crowd in the direction that the other two were looking. It only took a few seconds. "Well, shit. She obviously didn't get the message the first time."

"What do we do about it?" Madison looked at the two of them.

Emma frowned. "You gotta admit, that's pretty ballsy of her, coming back so soon after, uh, after what happened."

"Yeah," chimed in Madison. "It was terrible, wasn't it?"

Puzzled for just a moment, Sophia looked around to see one of the new substitute teachers loitering nearby. Mr Grant wasn't a bad teacher, but he seemed unusually interested in what the students had to say. Sophia had pegged him as an undercover cop on about the second day, so the three girls had become a little more discreet about what they discussed and where they discussed it.

Turning, she looked pointedly at him; after a few seconds, he moved off, apparently finding business elsewhere. Smiling slightly, Sophia turned back to Emma. "So, shall we organise a welcome back party for her?"

"Nothing too blatant," Emma cautioned her. "Might be more of them around."

"Oh, please," Sophia retorted. "Like they could catch me on their best day."

"So what do we do?" asked Madison again.

Sophia smiled slowly, her teeth very white. "We let everyone know that it's business as usual, of course."

* * *

Taylor ducked; the dodge-ball went flying over her head as she moved on. Behind her, she heard a muffled cry of pain and looked around; Julia, a friend of Madison's, was on the ground, blood flowing freely from her nose. _I didn't even know she was there._

Turning away, she saw the ball coming straight at her once more and recognised the thrower as one of Emma's friends. She moved aside just in time for it to whistle past her shoulder. _That would've left a bruise._

A grunt of pain and a solid thud made her look over her shoulder. Two girls had collided and fallen together. One of them was Sophia Hess; from the way she was holding her ribs, she must have taken a hit there.

 _Shit, they've really got it in for me._ She saw the ball bounce into the hands of Emma's friend again and moved behind someone else. Sure enough, the girl held the throw, looking for a clear shot. Taylor kept moving, stepping behind people and the girl kept waiting, until Mr Sorensen yelled at her to just throw the damn ball, already! So then she threw it, without nearly as much force as before, at someone else.

* * *

Taylor ducked her head under the shower stream and ran water through her hair. _They're not going to let up._ It was a dismal certainty. Although it _had_ been a good gym class; she had no bruises from the dodge-ball this time around. That was a rare enough event that she considered it reason for minor celebration. _They'll get me some other way._

A thud and a grunt of pain made her turn around. She couldn't see that well without her glasses, but it looked like someone was lying on the floor just outside the shower. Turning off the water, she grabbed her towel and wrapped it around herself. Stepping into the outer part of the cubicle, she looked down at the supine girl. Upon closer investigation, she realised that it was Sophia, holding a bunch of familiar-looking clothing. Above her, where Taylor's clothes should have been hanging on a hook, there was nothing. A piece of soap, lying nearby, appeared to be the architect of Sophia's downfall. _I_ _ **wondered**_ _where that got to._

"Hey, that's my stuff!" Taylor reached down and grabbed her clothes from Sophia; the other girl tried half-heartedly to hang on to them, but seemed to be in some amount of pain from her ribs. Hanging the clothes back on the hook, Taylor dried herself hurriedly – her hair would be damp, but that was no big deal – and got dressed before Sophia could do more than sit up. Under her were Taylor's sneakers; Sophia seemed to have landed on them, which couldn't have done her bruised ribs – or ego – any good.

Hurrying away, she worried over the incident as she went to hang her towel up. _It was just a lucky break that she stepped on the soap. She'll be after me now ... and today was going so well, too._

* * *

"So, can anyone tell me what precipitated the downfall of the Namibian government? Anyone?"

Taylor raised her hand to answer Mr Gladly's question, while glancing around to keep an eye on Madison. The petite brunette was glaring daggers at her, thanks to the empty desk next to Madison, which was usually occupied by her friend Julia. Taylor had a good idea why – _the dodge-ball must have hit her pretty hard. She's probably still in the infirmary –_ but she wasn't sure why Madison seemed to be blaming her for it. _She probably thinks I shouldn't have ducked._

"Yes, Taylor?"

She turned back to the front; Mr Gladly was looking directly at her. "Uh, yes. That was due mainly to Moord Nag, wasn't it? The government was corrupt and wasn't protecting the people, so she came in and killed the militias that were oppressing them. After that, the people decided to support her instead of the government."

"Very good, Taylor. I see that you weren't idle while you were away." He beamed at her; she wanted to scowl back at him. _He has to know why I've been 'away'; I still can't sleep with the light off and Dad's got to spray the bedroom for bugs on a daily basis. But at least I'm not waking up screaming any more._

And then Madison put her hand up; he turned to her. "Yes, Madison?"

"Uh, Mr G, can I go sharpen my pencil at the trash can? It broke."

Taylor was immediately suspicious – Madison always took the opportunity to pass by her desk and cause problems when she went to the trash can – but there wasn't much she could do about it.

She was right, of course; when Madison came past, she went to grab Taylor's books and pull them to the floor, but Taylor locked her arms down on them and glared at her. Undaunted, Madison smiled angelically and continued on to the trash can in the corner of the room.

Mr Gladly, as always, totally missed the byplay. "Okay, class, turn to page one hundred and five. I want you to read through the examples given of regime changes due to parahuman interference over the last ten years. Pay particular attention to those in Africa and see if you can't spot any common factors."

As Taylor complied, she saw Madison making her way back down the row of desks. There was a secret smile on her face that boded no good for Taylor. _What's she going to do?_

And then, at the desk ahead of Taylor's, the boy sitting there moved his elbow and his pencil fell on the floor. He didn't seem to notice and nor did Madison; her heel came down on it, it rolled and her foot flew out from underneath her. With a startled shriek, she landed on her butt, with what looked like brown snow drifting down around and on top of her.

 _Shavings,_ Taylor realised. _She saved all the shavings and she was going to dump them on me._

"Madison, are you all right?" Mr Gladly came down the row of desks, but she was already getting to her feet.

"Mr G, Taylor tripped me!" Madison's finger was out straight, accusing.

"What? No!" Taylor pointed at the pencil, still on the floor. "John's pencil fell off his desk. Madison stepped on it."

Bending down, Mr Gladly picked up the pencil and examined it. "John, is this yours?"

Turning, the boy looked at it. "Uh, yeah, Mr G. Sorry about that. Sorry, Mads."

"Be more careful next time." Mr Gladly handed the pencil back to him. "Madison, I don't think Taylor tripped you. Just go back to your desk, all right? And clean yourself off."

Visibly fuming, Madison stomped past Taylor, brushing pencil shavings off of herself. Not even she would do something obvious while Mr Gladly was standing right there, but in no way did Taylor think she was going to give up.

 _I am so dead._

* * *

"Got the water balloons?" Madison's smile was more than a little anticipatory.

"Right here." Emma carefully lifted the cardboard box from her backpack; she'd padded it with wadded-up plastic bags for this purpose. From within, she handed out the gurgling rubber sacs of watery doom. There were two for each of them; even assuming each of them missed with one, the other three balloons would be sufficient to soak Taylor to the skin.

"Excellent." Sophia weighed hers in her hand. She'd been waiting all _day_ to repay Hebert for the humiliation in gym class. This would do perfectly.

"So where is she?" asked Emma.

"Went upstairs a little while ago," Madison reported. "Maybe to the bathrooms?"

"Good." Sophia started up the stairs. "Maybe we can catch her in one of the stalls."

"No, wait, here she comes now. Quick, get out of sight!"

Emma's mistake was tugging on Sophia's sleeve. In doing so, she lost her grip on one of the water balloons; it slipped from her hand and splattered on the steps, spraying water far and wide. Sophia, in the process of turning, stepped into the puddle. Losing all grip on the step, her foot shot out to the side and she fell. As it happened, this was on top of Emma and Madison.

"Look out!"

"Argh!"

"Fuck!"

They went down in a tangle of flailing limbs. Flailing limbs which released water balloons _upward,_ to fly in short arcs and then come down again. Five soggy splats sounded, one after the other.

Taylor came trotting down the steps; as she reached the landing above, she peered curiously at the scene below. Sophia was lying atop Emma, with Madison squashed beneath the two of them. All three were soaked from head to toe and brightly coloured rags of rubber were lying around them.

Edging around them, she spared them one last look, then headed off down the corridor.

Clambering out from under Sophia, Emma sat up, a distinctly disgruntled look on her face. "We have _got_ to do better than this."

"Well, don't look at _me,"_ snapped Sophia. _"You're_ the one who dropped your water balloon."

As the other two argued, all Madison could do was try to remember how to breathe.

* * *

End of Part One


	2. Chapter 2

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Two: Rebound

* * *

I got off the bus and hefted my backpack. Even now, the memory of Emma, Sophia and Madison, piled at the bottom of the stairs, made me giggle spontaneously when I thought of it. I thought I might have an idea how that had happened; they'd obviously brought the water balloons to school in order to ambush me with them, but one of the balloons had maybe leaked, making a puddle on the stairs. _And Sophia stepped on the soap earlier, so there was probably still some on her shoe._

However it had happened, it had been a very satisfying scene to come upon. They hadn't bothered me for the rest of the day. In fact, I hadn't _seen_ them for the rest of the day. _Being humiliated like that must kind of burn. Gee, I wouldn't know about that at_ _ **all**_ _._

Strolling along the pavement with the pack slung over her shoulder, I felt unaccountably light-hearted for the first time in … months. I still hadn't totally recovered from the ordeal in the locker, but the money that Dad had squeezed out of the school would probably go toward therapy. Truth be told, I didn't know how I was going to deal with some stranger asking me probing questions about things I really didn't want to think about, but I guessed that it was probably a good idea. _I don't want to end up with PTSD._

But today had been a _good_ day, the ominous beginnings notwithstanding. _Maybe I'm learning to dance between the raindrops._ For sure, they'd tried, but they hadn't been able to tag me even once, not in gym class or after – though I had an errant bar of soap to thank for Sophia's downfall – not in World Affairs and not at the stairs. My mind slid irresistibly back to the look on Emma's face when I had descended the stairs and edged around them. That expression of total aggravation and humiliation had been _so_ worth it. _I just wish I'd had a camera._

Still giggling, I opened the chain-link gate and let myself into the back yard. The back door opened to my key and I strolled into the house.

"Afternoon, Taylor." Dad was sitting on the sofa.

Okay, I hadn't expected _that._

* * *

"Um, Dad, why _are_ you home so early?"

"Because I was worried about you." We sat across the kitchen table from each other. I'd fixed myself a ham sandwich. He was just sitting there.

"Oh. Well, I'm fine. Today was actually pretty good, to be honest." I took a bite from my sandwich.

"So nobody picked on you?"

For a split second, I considered telling him the unvarnished truth – _they tried, but they just couldn't get it right. Oh, by the way, my ex best friend Emma is leading the pack –_ but I chickened out. Dad didn't need this sort of hassle; if he came home early every day because he was worrying about me, he might lose his position with the Dockworkers' Association.

"Seriously, Dad. I'm fine. Nothing happened. Nobody shoved me, called me names, picked on me or _anything._ Heck, I didn't even get hit playing dodge-ball." _Though they surely tried._

"Oh." He looked obscurely disappointed, as though he'd wanted to be able to justify leaving work early. "So, no problems at all?"

"None. I promise." I reached across the table, captured his hand. "I'm _fine._ You worry about getting jobs for the dock workers."

Finally, he smiled and squeezed my hand. "Okay, kiddo. You win. But if there's a problem, let me know, okay?"

"Sure." I knew I was lying through my teeth. Even if I'd had problems, I wouldn't have admitted to them; Dad needed to be able to concentrate fully on his job. And even if today was just a fluke, it was a welcome fluke and I'd take it. That one good day was worth a lot of aggravation.

And what the hell, I might have another one soon.

* * *

 **Tuesday, January 11, 2011**

* * *

"Okay, so shit happened. We move along. Taylor got lucky, but it's not gonna happen again. We're gonna show her who's boss." Sophia looked between Emma and Madison, her expression hard, as if challenging them to contradict her.

"Okay, so what do we do?" Emma looked unsure; Sophia wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled, to tell her _you're tough, dammit, show a bit of spine!_ But she didn't. It was up to Emma to prove her toughness.

"The bathrooms." Madison's voice was bright. She still winced a little when she moved – her bruises had to be even more spectacular than Sophia's – but her heart was definitely in this.

"What _about_ the bathrooms?" Sophia made her voice harsh.

It didn't seem to faze the petite brunette. "She'll be there again today. She goes there nearly every lunchtime. Third floor. You know, the one where the stall doors open outward."

"So what?" But Emma was looking interested now.

"So one of us holds the door shut, while the other two drop stuff on her from either side." Madison's voice held a _do I have to explain everything?_ note, but Emma didn't mind. "Soda, pudding, juice. No witnesses, no way for her to get away from us."

"She might go to Blackwell." Sophia didn't really think this would happen, but she was throwing it out there to see what the others thought.

"What if she does?" Emma snorted. "She didn't get a good look at us last Monday, so even if she says anything, all we have to do is alibi out. Arrange it ahead of time and they'll never pin it on us. What the cops don't see, they can't prove."

"All right then." Sophia gave Madison an approving nod. "We'll do it."

"One more thing." Emma's voice held a note of caution.

"Yeah?" Sophia turned to look at her.

"We don't do anything _till_ then. Make her think we're leaving her alone."

Madison nodded. "Yeah. Good idea."

* * *

I had to admit to a certain amount of wariness; as welcome as the lucky breaks had been for me on Monday, they couldn't last. _But maybe they won't have to. Maybe I can get through this on my own._

It even seemed to be working. Math class had dragged on, certainly, but nobody from Emma's coterie had done anything to mess up my day. Next had been World Affairs, with Madison and Julia. The latter had a gorgeous black eye, albeit mostly concealed with makeup, along with a bandage across the bridge of her nose. I hadn't spoken to them, or even looked at them if I could help it. Madison hadn't tried any pranks, although she and Julia had given me the occasional poisonous glare when Mr Gladly's back was turned.

The third class of the day was Computers, which I shared with none of the regular bullies. I was good with computers, so I could settle down and think things through logically, while doing the work at the same time.

I wasn't quite sure how to process the situation; were they giving up? They had eased off once before, just prior to the Christmas break, which had culminated in the locker incident. But that had gotten the school some very unwelcome attention from the police; had this scared them off?

Part of me wanted to think that their run of bad luck might turn them off bullying me, but I didn't think so. They'd been getting away with it for more than a year. It was probably _habit_ for them.

But yesterday had proven something to me as well; they weren't infallible. They could _lose._ Given just a little luck and perhaps some forethought, I might just be able to sidestep further attempts. Or at least force them out into the open enough that the teachers and staff were forced to pay attention.

At least, that was the general plan.

* * *

Habits cut both ways. Emma and her friends had 'torment Taylor' down to a fine art, whereas I had been eating my lunch away from the cafeteria – far too many opportunities for spilled food, spilled drinks, trips, shoves, pinches and other indignities and humiliations, thank you _very_ much – for quite some time.

I didn't eat in the same place _every_ time, for fear that they'd find out and stake the place out, but one of my favoured locations was the upstairs girls' bathroom. Lock myself in a cubicle, eat my lunch, read a book, do some homework, go back down to class. No muss, no fuss, no bother.

I didn't realise that they knew about this ploy until, well, they showed up.

The first I knew of it was when I was sitting on the toilet seat, halfway through my pita wrap, when the door of the bathroom banged open. I froze. I didn't want to rustle the bag and clue anyone into what I was doing, so I kept still and listened. There was a knock on the door, making me jump. I ignored it, but the person on the other side just repeated the knock.

"Occupied," I called out, hesitantly.

In response, I heard muffled giggling and whispering; most of the words were too soft for me to hear, but I thought I heard my name. And I definitely recognised the voices. _Emma. Sophia. Madison. Shit, they found me._

This was most definitely _not_ a good thing.

I stood up abruptly, letting the brown bag with the last mouthful of my lunch fall to the tiled floor. Rushing for the door, I popped the lock open and pushed. The door didn't budge.

As I pushed harder, I heard noises from the stalls on either side of me. _What are they doing?_ I gathered myself to push even harder and then I heard a crash and a clatter from both sides, interspersed with startled shrieks. Overhead, a bottle of juice – I smelled cranberries – arced over the stall, the globules spilling from the neck just missing me as it vanished from my sight beyond the door. I heard the hollow plastic clatter as it struck the tiled floor while I heaved once more at the cubicle door.

From beyond the door, I heard a startled cry, followed by a heavy thud, as the obstruction gave way.

I pushed the door open all the way and looked down at Sophia Hess; she was lying, winded, in a most uncomfortable position, in what seemed to be a large pool of cranberry juice, which was now soaking into her top and skirt. From the mark on the floor, one of her feet had skidded in the pool, which had come from the bottle that was lying beside her … which I had seen seconds before, flying over the top of the stall. _It must've landed just right to spill the juice so she'd step in it. Really?_

Sophia, although she gave me a groggy glare of death, didn't seem about to get up and attack me, so I retrieved my bag lunch and backpack from the toilet stall. As I was doing so, I realised that Emma's face was glaring at me from under the divider.

"Emma?" I asked, jolted out of my bemusement. "What the _fuck?"_

She didn't answer, so I stepped out of the stall once more. I _had_ to see what was going on here.

Looking into Emma's stall, I saw – and burst out laughing. Emma had, I gathered, been standing on the toilet seat in order to reach over the partition and – I presumed – pour juice on me. No, not juice, I corrected myself; soda. The half-empty bottle was floating in the toilet bowl itself, its missing contents all over _Emma_.

* * *

The cause of the mishap was clear. The toilet seat had come loose from the pedestal, going one way while she went the other. And somehow, through some miracle of comic timing, she'd ended up wedged upside-down beside the cistern, with her head almost under the divider between toilets. She was grunting and straining to free herself, her legs jerking spasmodically, but it looked as though she had come down at just the right angle – or _wrong_ angle, from her point of view – for doing that; one of her arms was trapped and she had zero leverage with the other one. In short, she was stuck in a hugely embarrassing position and would require intensive assistance to extricate herself. And possibly the use of heavy machinery.

The story in the stall on the other side was perhaps even funnier. Madison's toilet seat had opted to come loose from its pedestal as well _– wait,_ _ **what**_ _?_ \- but instead of going sideways, it had shot out of the stall and come to rest under the sink. She hadn't ended up covered in the contents of her bottle, as Emma had; _that_ bottle was the one that had arced over my stall and contributed to Sophia's catastrophic mishap, but she had ended up stuck in the toilet, butt first, with a small container of chocolate pudding upended on her head, the contents trickling down her face. Her knees were quite literally up around her ears. And as petite as she was, she looked _wedged._

I would have given my _soul_ to own a camera, right at that moment. I would have settled for a phone with a camera in it. Heck, I would have accepted a reasonably good _sketch artist._

* * *

By the time I managed to stumble from the bathroom, I was weeping with laughter. I would have stayed, to enjoy the absolute hilarious awesomeness of the situation even _more_ , but Sophia was beginning to climb to her feet. She was still winded, holding her ribs, but that wouldn't last and I figured it was probably a good idea to absent myself from the situation.

Other girls were just arriving at the bathrooms as I staggered out. They looked at me curiously as I wiped tears of mirth from my eyes. I still couldn't talk, so I just pointed into the the bathrooms and made good my escape.

* * *

By the end of the next period, the news was all over tenth grade and starting to percolate into the rest of the school. Emergency services had been called in; Madison was eventually pried out of her porcelain prison, while they had to dismantle the toilet beside Emma to get her free. Both were taken away on stretchers; the paramedics didn't _think_ they'd sustained spinal injuries, but it was better by far to get them X-rayed to make sure.

Sophia, who had merely been winded – again – went into a magnificent fit of the sulks. People asking her about what had happened got told to fuck off in no uncertain terms; people asking _me_ , on the other hand, got chapter and verse in between fits of laughter. I knew that Sophia would probably kill me later, but it was still so _very_ worth it.

Several people expressed disbelief that the whole thing had happened at all, but the the first girls in there had taken photos before Sophia chased them out again. Those photos were making their way around the school in a way that underlined the phrase 'going viral'. It turned out that the more popular someone was, the more glee people took from the situation when that person ended up with egg on their face. And _boy,_ did they take some glee from it.

Others had trouble believing that all of this had happened by chance; the number of staggering coincidences required boggled the mind. But I had done nothing and I told them so. They seemed to accept this and went back to admiring the photos. I, on the other hand, was beginning to wonder.

* * *

Weird coincidences were starting to follow me around. My life wasn't getting any _better –_ unless I counted in the sheer satisfaction at seeing Emma and company brought down, as well as the fact that they were out of my hair for the moment – but it was becoming clear to me that the bullies were being prevented from tormenting me by incidents that could only be described as crazy random happenstance. Any one of the events of the last two days, taken on its own, could easily be passed off as pure chance, but two separate toilet seats coming free of their moorings at exactly the same time, with a bottle of juice flying over and leaving a pool for Sophia to step in? What were the odds?

Yesterday, Sophia's attempt to steal my clothing had ended when she stepped on the soap; soap that had almost certainly contributed, later on, toward foiling the water balloon plot. Looking at it in a certain way, it could all be explained away logically. As Dad had once told me, dice have no memory. It was perfectly _possible_ for a series of one-in-a-million chances to happen, one after the other, to the same person, for the same end. But _plausible?_ Not so much.

I needed to think about that. In fact, I was strongly considering talking to Dad about it. He had to have seen weirdness happening in his life. If he could match my story with one of his own, then I'd accept it as just one amazingly awesome day. But if he couldn't …

* * *

I was still thinking about it when the last class ended and I joined the general exodus from the school. Just as I reached the bottom of the steps, I heard Sophia's voice. "There she is."

Turning, I saw Sophia, in the company of four boys. Each of them was eyeing me with intent and moving in my direction. I began edging away, not wanting to let her or them get too close to me. True, whatever guardian angel was watching over me hadn't let her touch me for the last two days, but I couldn't depend on that. I didn't _dare._

I got to the edge of the crowd and took off running, along the pavement. Part of my mind told me that I was running away from potential witnesses, people who could even help me against Sophia. The rest of my mind, the more pragmatic part of it, reminded me of all the times that these same people had stood by while Sophia and her friends had bullied me, up to and including _locking me in my own locker._ I ran faster.

* * *

When Hebert started running, Sophia glanced around. She couldn't see any of the undercover cops. _Perfect._ As they started after their prey, she pulled a heavy roll of silver-grey duct tape from her bag and handed it off to Troy, the biggest of the boys she had recruited for this purpose.

Their continued failure to get to Hebert following the locker incident had shaken Sophia a little. She was a winner. She _deserved_ to win. Hebert, by her very nature, was a loser. But she wasn't playing by the rules; she wasn't _losing._ Through no merit of her own, she was avoiding her very deserved comeuppance at their hands. _Well, not today._

All four boys were from the track team; Sophia had gotten their agreement to help her out with this by vaguely suggesting that she might be willing to date one of them if they assisted her. They'd fallen all over themselves to sign up for it. Originally, the idea was for them to chase Hebert on their own while Sophia left them to it, but she wasn't certain that they had the will to continue the chase to its conclusion, so she had decided to go along with them.

The duct tape was her idea. Once they had Hebert, Sophia intended to repay all of the humiliations and embarrassments that had happened to her over the last two days, then leaving the boys to add what refinements they could dream up in order to impress her. She couldn't have Hebert free to run off while this was going on, so binding her with tape was the next best idea. This brand had particularly strong adhesive qualities; Hebert was going to lose some hair. And possibly some skin, if the person removing it wasn't gentle.

They rounded the corner. Hebert was up ahead, running hard. However, while she was skinny, she was in no way fit or athletic. All they had to do was run her down. _Prey, meet predator._

Sophia took the lead, adding enough pace to catch up with Hebert in short order. The boys pounded alongside her, then a couple of them drew ahead. She gritted her teeth and pushed herself a little harder. _I don't lose, not to Hebert, not to you._

Ahead of them, she saw Hebert look around; her eyes widened and she actually sped up a little. But it was going to be too little, too late. They were bearing down on her like an express train and she had no hope at all of getting away. Behind her, Sophia heard Troy whoop with exhilaration, as well as the _zzzrrripppp_ noise as he pulled a length of duct tape free from the roll.

"Carefu-" she began, just as Ken began to put on a spurt, pulling ahead of her. She never got to finish the word, because Ken tripped and fell. Sophia was too close behind him and she went tumbling as well. The others crashed into her back. Something latched on to her.

 _Zzzrrripppp._ They rolled over and over, cursing and swearing and trying to get loose from one another. But every motion seemed to have the opposite effect from what was intended and she kept hearing that duct tape pulling free of the reel. With each motion, she was less and less able to move freely.

* * *

I heard the shouting and swearing behind me, far too close behind me; I snatched a glance with my heart in my mouth. The image that I beheld was so compelling that I nearly ran into a telephone pole before I remembered to look where I was going. Slowing to a trot and then a walk, I turned and ventured back the way I had come, staring with absolute fascination at Sophia and her friends.

Sophia glared back up at me, but she couldn't speak, due to the strip of duct tape crossing her mouth, meshed in with the one going right across over the top of her head. She struggled, but it didn't affect her bonds in the slightest.

"Okay …" I let the word draw out, trying to quell the laughter once more welling up from within me. "I get the duct tape bit, Sophia, but could one of you _please_ tell me how you all managed to tie _yourselves_ up with it?"

Those boys whose faces I could see looked utterly mortified, while Sophia looked as though she wanted to kill them, herself, or me, whichever was easier. I looked down at the bunch of them, somehow entangled in yard after yard of tough silvery-grey duct tape, binding their limbs no less efficiently than if they'd _intended_ this result.

I couldn't help it; I began to giggle. "Or," I gasped. "Or is this some kind of weird performance art? Because you should be on the Boardwalk."

I couldn't say any more because I was laughing so hard that my face turned red and my stomach hurt. Sophia was so pissed I thought I could almost hear the steam whistling from her ears, but due to that fortuitous strip of duct tape, she couldn't say a word. And that made it even funnier.

Eventually, I recovered enough to stagger back toward the bus stop. Sophia and the boys would work their way free eventually. I didn't want to be there when they did. I strongly suspected that they might hold it personally that I laughed at their misfortune.

Still, once I was on the bus, I laughed all the way home.

* * *

As I got into the yard, I checked this time to see if Dad had come home early again. Sure enough, the car was parked alongside the house. _Damn it, Dad._

I opened the back door and called out. "Hi, I'm home!"

"Hi," he replied. "I'm in the living room."

"Twice in a row?" I asked as I headed for the door into the living room. "Dad, you're going to get in trouble."

"I got a phone call at work today," he told me as he got up from the sofa.

"What, the school _called?"_ I was puzzled. "Nobody spoke to _me_ about this." Well, I _had_ been distracted in Mr Quinlan's math class, but then, the photos of Emma and Madison had been making the rounds. There hadn't been three students actually paying attention.

"It wasn't the school, Taylor." He looked at me soberly. "Alan Barnes called. He told me some weird story about you putting Emma in the hospital. He hinted at legal action."

I blinked. "Put her – Dad, I didn't _touch_ Emma!"

"All right," he agreed promptly. "So what _did_ happen?"

"Well, one of two things. The first is that Emma and her friends have been spontaneously suffering the worst case of bad luck _ever …_ or …"

"Or?" He tilted his head, looking at me.

I took a deep breath. "Or … I'm a cape."

* * *

End of Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Three: Miscommunication Central

* * *

The bus rolled past the group of struggling teens. Sophia could see the staring faces from within; worst of all was Hebert's face. She was _still_ laughing. _Laughing at_ _ **me**_ _._ _ **Nobody**_ _laughs at_ _ **me**_ _._

She wrenched against the binding duct tape, straining to form words past the strip which had fallen across her mouth and felt like it was permanently bound there. It didn't happen; all she managed was a faint mewing noise, which infuriated her even more. _That makes me sound helpless._ _ **I'm not helpless.**_

She had, of course, a simple way to get out of this. _I could go insubstantial, leave it behind._ A pause. _Unless this adhesive makes it_ _ **part**_ _of me._ She thought about it some more. _Well, if nothing else, I can get away from these dopes, and pull my way free._

The big problem was, of course, the fact that she would be outing herself in front of four witnesses. Worse, these witnesses would be able to verify that she, a superhero, had talked them into attacking Hebert.

The boys were also struggling, which didn't help; every time she thought she'd achieved any sort of slack in the duct tape, one of them would pull it tight again. She growled behind the tape.

 _Fuck it, I'll take the chance. Swear them to secrecy. It worked with Emma._

Taking a deep breath through her nose, she prepared to push herself into the shadow-state – then held back, just in time, as a dozen kids trotted around the corner.

* * *

"Holy shit, I didn't believe it when Joey texted me."

"I'm seeing it and I _still_ don't believe it."

"Are you seeing this?"

"Someone get a picture!"

"Oh god, this is classic."

"This is better than Emma Barnes."

"It's better than _Madison."_

"How do you even fucking _do_ that?"

"Geez, get a room, will you?"

"I didn't know she was into bondage."

"Hey guys, can we get you anything? Pillows? Blankets? Lube?"

* * *

Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Sophia gritted her teeth behind the duct tape. _Somebody is going to fucking_ _ **die**_ _for this._

The crowd of kids gathered around them, chattering and laughing. She heard phones click as pictures were taken and, presumably, sent to other people. And then someone knelt beside her; she felt fumbling at the duct tape. _Excellent. I'm getting out of this._

The fumbling moved to her belt, and she felt her phone being removed from her pocket. She tried to struggle, to wrench herself free, to turn to look at whoever was robbing her, but she couldn't do any of that. She couldn't even raise the alarm.

 _ **FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!**_

There was a slap on her ass – one final humiliation – and then the person was gone. With her phone. _I've just been robbed. I've just been_ _ **robbed**_ _. This does not happen to_ _ **me**_ _._

But manifestly, it had. Sophia nearly ruptured herself trying to turn her head, to see who had taken them, but it was too late. Another phone clicked, capturing her expression.

Then – and _only_ then – did she hear sirens approaching. The crowd began to disperse as the police car came into sight; it pulled up alongside Sophia and the boys. The officers got out and approached the group; one of them pushed his cap back and scratched his head.

"Well," he mused out loud. "Now I really _have_ seen everything."

Sophia's list was really long by now, but she added him to it anyway.

* * *

She winced as the duct tape was pulled away from her mouth. She hadn't been wrong, before; the adhesive did feel as though it was removing skin as well as hair. "Fuck!" she screamed. "Fuck fuck _fuuuuuccccckkkk!"_

The police officers were restraining themselves from laughing, but only just, as they cut the five teens from the tangle of duct tape. For their part, the boys were a lot more subdued than Sophia, letting her take the lead.

Sophia subsided, glaring at everyone around her. The senior officer of the two pulled out his notebook. "Now that you've gotten that out of your system, miss, would you like to tell us how this happened?"

Sophia took a deep breath. "I -" She paused, riffling through options.

 _Fuck._

"It was an accident." She ground the words out.

"An accident." The other officer snorted with laughter. "Five of you get wound up with _duct tape_ and it's an _accident?"_

"Yeah," supplied one of the boys. "Like she said. It was an accident." He peeled duct tape from his clothing; it really didn't want to let go.

Sophia rounded on him. "You had a pocket-knife! I could feel it digging into my butt! Why didn't you get that out and cut us free?"

"Uh …" He seemed to want to look anywhere but her.

"What?"

"Uh, that … wasn't a pocket-knife."

They had to tase her to get her off of him.

* * *

As she exited the police station, Sophia felt her 'social worker' take her arm. "Sophia, what happened? Why did you attack that boy?"

Sophia clenched her teeth. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Why is there a big strip of missing hair over the top of your head?"

She clenched her teeth harder. "I _don't_ want to _talk_ about it."

"Oh, is that where the duct tape -"

" _Yes_ , that's where the duct tape was. Now can you just let it _go?"_

The woman looked at her directly. "I can't help you if you won't talk to me. What's happening here?"

Sophia felt a certainty unfolding in her mind. _I_ _ **know**_ _what happened_. "What's happening here is that you're driving me to the PRT building, and not asking any more stupid fucking questions."

* * *

She rehearsed the speech in her mind as she rode the lift up in the PRT building.

 _There is a Master-class cape loose at Winslow High. Her name is Taylor Hebert. She forced me and my friends to harm ourselves for her enjoyment. She belongs in the Birdcage._

As the lift came to a halt on the appropriate floor, she allowed herself a long-awaited snarl of triumph. _Suck on_ _ **that**_ _, Hebert. I don't lose._

Stepping out of the elevator, she strode along the corridor toward Director Piggot's office.

* * *

Emily Piggot looked up at the knock on the door. A quick glance at her day planner indicated that she didn't have any appointments scheduled. _This had better be good._ "Enter!" she called.

The door opened and Shadow Stalker ... well, _stalked_ in. Her fists were clenched and her whole posture bespoke anger; Emily could tell that much. Beyond that, however, there wasn't much of a clue as to what was going on. Shadow Stalker nearly always seemed to be angry or upset over something.

"I presume you're here for something important," stated Emily.

Shadow Stalker took a deep breath. "Yeah," she replied. "Got something you really need to hear about."

Emily tilted her head. "Is this anything to do with the incident today, where you were charged with several counts of assault and battery to a fellow student of Winslow?" Her tone, deceptively light, held a certain amount of weight behind it.

"I can explain that," Sophia gritted.

"Explain it? You broke his nose, fractured his cheekbone, and kicked him repeatedly in the testicles!" Emily exclaimed. "In front of two police officers! _After_ you were found duct-taped to him and three other boys! Can you explain that, too?"

Sophia clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles had to be white under the gloves. "Yes. It's why I'm here to talk to you now."

"And you couldn't simply leave me a message, or send an email?"

The Ward shook her head. "My phone was _stolen_. And it's really too important to put into an email. So I came straight here."

Emily nodded. "Very well. I will receive your report now."

* * *

 _Finally._ Sophia took a breath. "There's a -"

Piggot's phone rang. She held up a finger as she picked it up. "I have to get this."

Sophia ground to a halt, gritting her teeth. Impatiently, she watched Piggot on the phone.

"Yes … got it … yes … all right … okay … yes … okay … fine … done."

Piggot put the phone down and laced her fingers before her. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

Sophia rolled her eyes. "I'm saying that there's a -"

Piggot's mobile rang, vibrating furiously on the desk. "Excuse me," muttered the Director, picking it up. She frowned at the number on the screen, then answered it. "Yes?"

Sophia clenched her fists inside her gloves. _Oh, for fuck's sake. Come_ _ **on**_ _. It shouldn't be so hard to simply tell her what the fuck is going on, and get Hebert put in her place forever. Fuck, I don't even care if she_ _ **isn't**_ _a cape. She deserves this anyway._

On the phone, Piggot was still blathering on. "Pardon? No … no, I think you have the wrong number … no, this is the PRT building … Parahuman Response Teams … yes, yes, I'm sure. I'm the _Director_ … no, I'm not Director Costa-Brown, I'm Director Piggot … no, I'm not joking … yes, I am serious … no, I advise you to check your number before you call again … goodbye."

Heaving a sigh of aggravation, she clicked the button to end the call, then put the mobile down again.

"Apologies," she told Sophia. "Now, you had something to say?"

" _Yes,"_ gritted Sophia. "I _do_ have something to say."

Piggot cleared her throat warningly. "Tone," she warned Sophia.

Sophia pressed her lips together behind her mask, and took several deep breaths. "Okay," she muttered. "Okay."

"I'm waiting," prompted Piggot.

"Right," Sophia began yet again. "Director Piggot, there's a -"

A knock on the door interrupted her. She turned as it opened. The Deputy Director leaned in through the doorway.

"Yes, Mr Renick?" asked Piggot.

"I'm just going down to the canteen for a bite to eat," Renick offered. "Did you want me to get you anything?"

Piggot considered that. She wasn't feeling particularly hungry. "No thank you, Mr Renick. I appreciate the offer, though."

"Not a problem, Director." Renick withdrew, pulling the door closed behind him. The Director looked back at Sophia.

"You were saying, Shadow Stalker?" she asked.

Sophia drew a deep breath. Screaming at the Director would not help. "Right. There's a -"

The computer on Piggot's desk beeped loudly, drawing the Director's eyes to the screen. "One moment," she interrupted, holding up a finger.

"No, but there's a -"

"Miss Hess, this is important," Piggot warned her, eyes skimming the screen. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"But what I've got to tell you can't _wait!"_ shouted Sophia, forgetting her decision not to scream at the Director.

Piggot turned to look at her, her gaze very cold indeed. "You will not use that tone of voice on me again," she snapped. "I have a very high priority email here that I have to look over."

"But this is _important,"_ insisted Sophia, trying not to shout again. "There's a -"

"No," snapped Piggot. "You will not interrupt me. You will _listen._ I'm a busy woman. I have work to do. I do not need you wasting my time like this. Now, you will wait till I have finished reading this email, and then you will say what needs to be said. Do you understand?"

Sophia's fists clenched again, and she ground her teeth together.

"I said, _do you understand?"_ Piggot was in full-on bureaucrat mode now. There would be no talking to her.

Reluctantly, Sophia nodded. "Yes," she conceded. "I understand."

Piggot nodded curtly. "Good." She looked back at the email.

Sophia put her hands behind her back, twining her fingers together until they hurt. She _had_ to tell Piggot about this. As much as Sophia wanted to put Hebert into her place personally, a Master-class like that had to be dealt with at a distance. And the best way to do that was by using the PRT as a blunt object. But to do _that,_ she needed the PRT to cooperate and take her seriously. Lashing out was not the best way to get that done.

Eventually, Piggot finished reading the email. She nodded once, then looked up at Sophia. "Very well. What was the matter that you wished to speak to me about?"

Sophia took a deep breath. "There's a -"

And then the Endbringer sirens went off.

* * *

"Oh, come _on!"_ screamed Shadow Stalker. "You've got to be fucking _kidding_ me!"

Emily was barely listening. She snatched up the phone and stabbed numbers on the keypad.

 _"Ops,"_ a voice reported in her ear.

"Talk to me," she ordered. "Which one is it?"

 _"We don't know. We're not even sure if there_ _ **is**_ _an Endbringer."_

"Explain." From the corner of her eye, she spotted Shadow Stalker digging a pencil and pad from a pouch on her belt.

 _"About thirty seconds ago, our sensory equipment suffered a massive glitch. Some sort of power spike. It ended up profiling sort of like an Endbringer, so the computer set off the alarm just in case. We're double-checking all our readings right now."_

Shadow Stalker placed the pad on the desk and began to write. She was two words in when the point broke. Throwing the pencil to the floor, she stamped on it.

"Triple-check them," Emily ordered curtly. Wordlessly, she pushed a mug full of pens across the desk to Shadow Stalker. The girl plucked one out and bent over the pad again.

 _"Will do, ma'am. Do you want to stay on the line, or should we call you back?"_

The first pen refused to work at all. The second managed a bare squiggle of ink before it died. Emily watched, bemused to the point that she almost lost track of what the man in Ops was saying.

"Ah, no, I need you to give this your full attention. Call me back if this is something we really have to worry about."

Shadow Stalker tried another pen. The nib came off and deluged the pad in ink.

 _"Yes, ma'am. Will do."_

"Good." Emily hung up, then took her gold-plated pen from her pocket. It was engraved with her unit's motto: _Neque receptus, non deditio._ Blandly, she offered it across the desk to Shadow Stalker.

Snatching it, the Ward ripped off the ink-covered page and clicked the pen. The click had authority behind it, as befitted a one hundred fifty dollar precision writing implement. However, what came next should not have happened; Emily watched in disbelief as the pen came apart in Shadow Stalker's hand, the powerful spring propelling bits and pieces of the mechanism in all directions.

With a howl of wordless rage, Shadow Stalker dropped the barrel of the pen, snatched a permanent marker from the cup, and spun around. She stomped over to the wall and began to write in large sweeping strokes.

Emily came to her feet, ignoring the familiar twinge from her legs. "Don't you _dare_ write on my -"

A flicker out of the corner of her eyes warned her; old reflexes took over and she dived to the floor. Behind her, a shattering crash heralded the demise of her office window. She shielded her head with her arms as fragments of glass cascaded around her and something barrelled over her desk. Another crash resounded through the room, this one sounding more like drywall.

Cautiously, shedding bits and pieces of her window, she got up and looked over the desk. There was, within the settling dust, a large hole in her office wall. Outside, in the corridor, something was going on; due to the dust, she couldn't tell exactly what it was, but there seemed to be at least two people involved, plus a lot of squawking.

A white feather drifted to her desk. She stared at it.

* * *

"It was the seagulls." Aegis, at least, seemed to be relatively unhurt. Piggot watched as he pulled a long sliver of glass from his arm; the wound didn't even bleed. Such a minor injury would be closed by the end of the day and healed by the time the week was up. He wouldn't even need bandaging. For just a moment, she envied him.

"The seagulls." Emily's voice was flat. There were more feathers in here, all originating from one very live and very noisy seabird, which had since escaped out the window in the confusion. On the upside, the Endbringer sirens had ceased to wail. "How do seagulls come into this?"

"Well, when the sirens went off, I was on patrol," he explained. "I came back as fast as I could. I got a reflection the sun off the building in my eyes as I was just gaining altitude to land on the roof. Then a flock of seagulls must have gotten in the way. One got right in my face, squawking and flapping. I didn't pull up in time."

"You most certainly did not." She looked down the hall a little way, to where paramedics were loading Shadow Stalker on to a stretcher. "How is she?"

"She's stable," one of them reported. "A few broken ribs and a broken collarbone. We don't think there was a spinal injury but we've got her immobilised anyway until that can be checked out. But she's awake now."

"Good." Piggot walked over and knelt next to the injured girl. Her knees protested, but she ignored them. "Shadow Stalker. Can you hear me?"

Shadow-Stalker's head was in a brace, so it couldn't move, but the girl's eyes rolled toward her. "Unh?"

"What was it you were trying to tell me?"

"Uh." The Ward seemed to be trying to think. "Director." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Yes?"

"It's not my fault."

"What's not your fault?"

"The bullshit magic space whale made me paint the eggs purple. I didn't mean to. It's in my brain."

Piggot looked accusingly at the paramedic. "I thought you said she was awake."

"She _is,"_ the man replied. "I didn't say she was _lucid._ She's got a huge bump on her head. There might be a concussion involved."

With an effort, Piggot stood again. "Take her away."

"Yes, ma'am."

She turned to Aegis. "Do you have any idea what she was talking about?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, ma'am. Not a clue."

She grimaced. "Well, the window and the wall will come out of your salary. Next time, be more careful."

His expression mirrored hers. "Yes, ma'am."

"Get out of my sight." She stumped back into her office.

 _I wonder what she wanted to tell me._

Letting out a sigh, she brushed glass from her chair. _That was a serious string of bad luck._ She paused. _ **Wait**_ _a minute ..._

* * *

End of Part Three


	4. Chapter 4

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Four: Surprise!

* * *

 _[A/N: The last line of the last chapter has been altered. Just so you know.]_

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

Dad's face got even more serious. "Taylor, talk to me. Why do you think you might be a cape?"

Dropping my bag on the floor, I started to pace back and forth; I had too much energy in me to stand still. "Because weird shit's been happening all day. People trying to get at me and failing."

He frowned. "Get at you?"

I gestured vaguely. "Prank me. Bully me."

" _Christ."_ In two long strides, he was across the room, lifting the phone off of the hook.

"Dad!" He started pressing buttons. _"Dad!"_

Pausing, he turned toward me. "What?"

"Who are you calling?"

"Who else? The police. And the school. I should have known. Nothing's changed, has it?"

I shook my head. "It's not the way you think it is."

Slowly, he put the phone down again. "Explain."

I began to pace once more. "For the last two days, they've been trying to prank me again. And it's been backfiring on them, dramatically. Yesterday, I thought I was just lucky. Today … it was more than luck. A lot more."

"What do you mean, a lot more?"

"Come on, I'll show you." I headed for the stairs.

"Show me what?" Puzzled, he followed.

"You'll see."

* * *

 **Emily**

* * *

"Renick. A word, if you will."

Deputy Director Paul Renick looked up from his terminal; beside him, a half-eaten sandwich rested on a paper plate. "Director," he greeted her, rising to his feet. "I'm glad you're okay."

She nodded briefly. "Thanks." Closing the door behind her, she approached his desk. "I need to run something past you. Get your input. I don't need doubletalk and I don't want you to tell me what you think I want to hear."

"Well, of course." He pulled the chair out from behind his desk and offered it to her. "Have a seat."

She took it, lowered herself into it; it creaked under her weight. "Thank you. Now, you know the basics of what just happened to my office."

"Well, yes. I'll be speaking to Aegis very firmly when I get the chance."

A shake of the head. "There's more to it than that. Shadow Stalker was coming to me about something. Trying to give me some information."

"What was the information?"

"That's just it. She was prevented from giving it to me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Prevented?"

"She came into my office, very agitated. Told me she wanted to warn me about something. Began to speak. The following things interrupted her." Raising a hand, she ticked off points. "Phone call. Phone call on my mobile that was a wrong number. You came in to ask if I wanted anything from the canteen."

He blinked. "I was hungry."

"And you've done it before, yes." Her voice was impatient. "The point is in the _timing._ After you, there was that email on S-class threats and then the Endbringer siren."

"Wasn't that a computer glitch?"

"It was, but again – _timing."_ She raised a finger. "While I was on the phone to Ops, she decided to write me a note. Her pencil broke. I gave her my pen mug. She picked two pens that didn't work and one that put ink all over her pad. Then I gave her _my_ pen."

His eyes flicked to the pocket of her jacket. "Uh, where is it?"

Her lips compressed. "It came apart in her hand. There are bits and pieces all over my office. The people cleaning up have orders to retrieve all the bits intact."

"Okay, that's a bit beyond the normal." He rubbed his chin. "What happened next?"

"She took a permanent marker and started to write on the wall. And that was when Aegis came through the window. He put her through the same bit of wall she was writing on."

"That's got to be more than a coincidence."

She nodded. "Precisely what I was thinking. And this _also_ happened with perfect timing. I even had time to duck out of the way."

Now he had a frown on his face. "This is starting to sound like far more than random chance."

She heard a certain note in his voice. "But … ?"

"But it would _also_ be extremely difficult to set up deliberately, with that sort of timing."

She nodded. "Yes, the timing. To have any one of those incidents, or even two or three in a row, are understandable. We've _had_ days like that. But."

"But all that bad luck, one bit after the other, precisely timed to prevent her from telling you … what?"

"I'm beginning to get an idea of the shape of it," she growled. "Something that can manipulate both people and random events. A cape who's almost certainly got it in for Shadow Stalker for some reason." She shook her head. "But they don't want her dead, just not telling me what she knows. Two feet either way and Aegis would have put her through a wall brace. Broken back, fractured skull, at the very least. She could be _dead_ right now. But she's only in the hospital."

"Well, maybe …" He paused.

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe she was trying to warn you about whoever was doing this to her. And that the cape was doing it to stop her from warning you. But like you said, they didn't want her _dead."_

She paused, thinking about it, then shook her head. "No, it doesn't follow. Whoever this is can manipulate, well, probability, on a very precise scale. The blatant way they did it almost ensures that I know that _something's_ going on, and that I'll figure out what it is. That defeats their purpose."

He glanced around the room. She frowned. "What?"

"Just waiting for something to happen to stop us from talking about this."

"Maybe this hypothetical cape's got all his attention focused on Shadow Stalker." She rubbed her chin. "If she wanted to warn us about such a cape … hmm. Could be that she's already encountered him or her. There _was_ the duct tape incident, just after school."

"I heard about that, but not the details." Renick looked intrigued.

She pointed at his terminal. "You've got a computer. Call up social media. See what hits there have been on Sophia Hess over the last few hours. Because with something like that, there's almost certainly going to be pictures."

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

I sat at the computer in my room, bringing up social media pages. Dad leaned over my shoulder, looking at the images displayed.

"Christ, I see what you mean." He tried hard not to laugh, but the pictures on the screen were just too funny. "How in hell did they end up like _that?"_

"Well, as far as I can tell," I replied, "Emma and Madison were standing on the toilet lids, preparing to douse me in juice and soda, while Sophia held the door shut. Not sure what the pudding was all about, though."

"And Sophia?" He indicated the third series of pictures. They were … weirdly compelling. Hard to look away from.

"They were chasing me with duct tape. Apparently you shouldn't run with that."

"Apparently not," he agreed, between chuckles. "Oh, man. I don't know if I could do that on _purpose,_ let alone by accident."

"Which is why I think I'm a cape," I explained. "I think I bring bad luck to people who are trying to harm me." Quickly, I sketched in what had happened on Monday.

"But not to anyone else?"

"Um." I paused. "I overheard the janitor saying that he'd spilled coffee on himself and he was going to his office to clean himself up. That was the only reason he was going past my locker. And that police officer _did_ say that they lost an important case just in time to get mine."

He took his glasses off and began to polish them. "So … whatever this is, it inflicts bad luck to help you or to stop people from hurting you."

"I guess." I frowned. "But nothing _good_ has happened. I haven't found any lost wallets full of money, or won a free trip to Hawaii or anything like that."

"Hey." His voice was severe. "You got out of that locker, right? All those pranks against you failed, right? Don't be greedy."

Abashed, I nodded. "Right, sorry, Dad."

"Though if you do find any wallets full of cash, I want half."

His expression was almost deadpan enough to fool me; I shoved him. "Dad, really?"

His smile broke through again. "No. Seriously, though, you have to remember that if you do find a wallet full of cash, it means that someone's _lost_ a wallet full of cash. Okay?"

"Okay." I sighed. "But now I'm worried."

"Worried about what?" His glasses went back on his face.

"I didn't mean for this power to do any of that." I pointed at the pictures on the screen. "I didn't even _know_ I had powers, or that it was even _doing_ that."

"Huh." He frowned. "What if you don't actually have powers?"

"What?" I was startled. "But – everything that's happened -"

"No, no, hear me out." He raised a finger. "What if it's someone _else_ around the school who's got the powers, and has decided to protect you with them?"

"What, without telling me?"

A shrug. "Secret identities are a thing. And if you're getting bullied that regularly, people might not want to be seen to be protecting you."

I thought about that for a moment. "But … there _was_ nobody around when I was in the bathroom stall. Nobody but Emma and Sophia and Madison."

"Nobody that you saw. They could have been outside and you wouldn't have known." He considered that. "Or invisible, or something. In fact, invisibility or telekinesis could probably do exactly what we're seeing here."

"So wait," I protested. "You're saying that I had some invisible person hanging around while I was in the _shower?_ That's majorly creepy, right there!"

"Hmm." He considered that. "Might be a girl."

"Only makes it slightly less creepy," I pointed out. "And this guardian angel's doing this stuff without asking me or being asked to do it. People could get _hurt."_

"Only because they're trying to hurt _you,"_ Dad pointed out carefully.

"Still, what if someone decides that I'm a cape because of all this? And comes after _you?_ Or if the PRT decides that I'm a dangerous out-of-control cape and tries to shut me down?"

Dad rubbed his chin. "Well, there is _one_ thing we can do."

* * *

 **Emily**

* * *

Renick tried to hide a smirk. "Okay, I'm convinced. This isn't random chance."

Emily repressed the urge to laugh; the images were indeed highly amusing. But that wasn't the point. "You're correct, of course. This is the work of outside forces. What happened to those other two girls, as well as Shadow Stalker, is definitely worth looking into. Every instinct is telling me that there's a cape at the bottom of this."

He frowned. "Are you thinking Master?"

"No." She shook her head. "Shaker. What happened in my office was the work of something that could manipulate random incidents to give them precise timing. Probability manipulation. All aimed at preventing Shadow Stalker from saying what she wanted to say."

"And she kept trying to say it, which put her in the hospital." Renick's expression was grim.

"So whoever this is, they don't care about the people they hurt," she replied. "This could be a problem."

"No, this _is_ a problem." Renick pointed at the image of Sophia Hess, bound in duct tape. "Whoever this is targeted her in both civilian and heroic identities. He or she knows who Shadow Stalker is behind the mask. And isn't worried about attacking her either way."

Emily grimaced. _"Damn_ it. If it's not one thing …"

Her mobile rang; surprised, she glanced down and hooked it from her pocket. "Director Piggot here."

" _Director, this is Lieutenant Bronson, down in the lobby. Two people just came in, a girl and an older guy. The girl wants to talk to you. She says it's about what happened at Winslow today."_

She stared at Renick, her eyes full of surmise. "Escort them up at once."

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

About five minutes out from home, the Endbringer sirens started wailing. I turned to Dad. "That doesn't sound good at all."

He leaned down and switched on the radio. Soft country music spilled out of it. No bulletins, no warnings, nothing. Just the music. _"That's_ odd."

"Maybe it's a drill or something?"

"Well, just in case it isn't, I'll head for the Central Library shelter. It's closest."

"Good idea." We kept listening for anything Endbringer-related on the radio for the next few minutes, but nothing came up. Traffic was beginning to get hectic, with multiple small collisions and snarls, but nothing came near us; it was almost as if the road were being cleared for us, giving us a clear path. I didn't say anything and nor did Dad. Neither of us wanted to break the spell.

And then the sirens just quit sounding. I looked around, confused. "Maybe it was a mistake?"

Dad shook his head. "They don't make mistakes with that sort of thing." Soft music continued to roll from the speakers.

"Right," I stated. "So, uh, yeah, the PRT building?" I had been almost relieved when the sirens went off, because that would delay the inevitable. But there was no Endbringer. There was just me and Dad and my guardian angel. I had to see this through.

* * *

 **Emily**

* * *

Two people were escorted into the conference room by the PRT soldiers. The first was a middle-aged man, tall and skinny, with a weak chin and a balding head. His glasses gave him a slight air of bewilderment. Emily assessed him with a glance, then turned to the girl.

She was also tall and skinny, wearing sneakers, jeans, a T-shirt and round-lensed glasses. Long dark hair spilled down her back, but she had his eyes. _If these aren't father and daughter, I will eat my desk._

Emily rose and held out her hand. "Director Emily Piggot. And you are …?"

The man stepped forward, accepting the handshake. "Danny Hebert. This is my daughter Taylor."

"Mr Hebert, pleased to meet you." She shook his hand. Have a seat."

Each of them drew out a chair and sat down; she took her own seat once more. Lacing her fingers before her, she eyed them closely.

"Thank you for seeing us so quickly." That was Hebert; his daughter seemed to be just sitting, quietly nervous.

"I will admit, the happenings today at Winslow have certainly gained my attention." Piggot's tone was grimly amused. "I did _not_ expect someone to turn up on my doorstep about them." She paused a beat, focusing her attention on the girl. "Why _are_ you here, by the way?"

The girl glanced at her father, then back at Emily. "All of this … it's not me. I'm not controlling it. But things _are_ happening. I wanted to warn you before things got too far out of control, before someone got badly hurt." She blinked. "Wait, you already _knew_ about this?"

A single nod. _I love moments like this._ "We're aware of what's been happening. However, you say it _isn't_ you?"

"No, I don't think it is," Taylor told her. "You see -"

Emily held up a hand. "One moment." Taking a digital recorder from her pocket, she placed it on the table and pressed the button to start recording. "This is Director Emily Piggot of PRT East North East, commencing interview on … the eleventh of January, two thousand eleven. The time is … five fifteen. I am interviewing Danny and Taylor Hebert regarding potential cape-related activities that have being going on at Winslow High. Taylor claims that while the events are connected to her, she's not responsible for them. Taylor?"

"Okay, um. I first started noticing weird things happening yesterday. I've been getting bullied, kind of a lot, and I had to spend a week away from school, but when I came back they tried to start it up again. But it all started going wrong."

Emily leaned forward slightly. "Define 'going wrong'."

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

I took a deep breath, tried to think back. "Um, on Monday, they were trying to target me in dodge ball, but they kept hitting each other. And then Sophia tried to steal my clothes when I was in the shower -"

"Hold up a moment." Director Piggot's tone was mildly curious. "For the record, what's this Sophia's full name?"

"Sophia Hess. She's one of the three people who's been really bullying me the most."

Piggot tilted her head to one side, very slightly. "And the other two?"

"Uh, Emma Barnes and Madison Clements."

A nod from the Director prompted me to go on. "Thank you. Proceed. What happened when Sophia Hess tried to steal your clothes?"

"She stepped on a bar of soap and fell over. She was too winded to stop me from getting my clothes back from her. And then later when all three of them tried to ambush me with water balloons, they somehow ended up falling all over each other and getting themselves with their own water balloons."

A stifled snort from the Director made me pause; I could see that the woman had her lips pressed tightly together. Piggot took a deep breath through her nostrils, then nodded. "Go on. What happened next?"

Feeling more confident, I went on. "Well, they left me alone for the rest of the day. But today, they tried to get me with juice and soda in the bathrooms. Standing on toilet seats and pouring them over the top of the partition."

"And they somehow slipped and ended up in those ridiculous positions," filled in Piggot. "I've seen the photos."

"Both toilet seats came off at the same time," I clarified. "I saw them."

Piggot raised an eyebrow. "Impressive. For a coincidence, that is."

"I was starting to wonder, even then," I admitted. "But it wasn't until Sophia tried to chase me down with some boys that things really started getting bizarre."

"This is the incident where they managed to tie _themselves_ up with the duct tape, correct?"

I nodded earnestly. "Yeah. But it's the bathroom incident that's got me worried."

The Director leaned back in her chair. "Worried?"

"Well, if it's not me, and I know I'm not doing it deliberately," I explained, "then there's got to be someone _else_ doing it. A guardian angel. Which is why I'm here."

"A guardian angel." There was a certain amount of scepticism in Piggot's voice.

"Well, that's what I'm calling whoever it is," I told her. "Personally, I'm thrilled that I've got a guardian angel. I haven't had to watch my back in school for two whole days. If he'd just tell me who he was, I'd thank him from the bottom of my heart. But I'd also ask him to ease up a little. So far he hasn't gone too far over the top, but I'm scared that he might hurt someone badly."

"Too late," Piggot told me flatly. "Someone _has_ been hurt badly."

My stomach felt as though it was going to drop to about the level of my sneakers. "Oh god. Who? How?"

"Your friend Sophia Hess." I wanted to correct her, inform her that Sophia wasn't _my_ friend, but Piggot was going on. "She's in the hospital right now with a broken collarbone, several broken ribs and what may turn out to be a severe concussion. All due to your so-called 'guardian angel'."

"No, that's impossible," I protested. "I saw her when she got duct taped. She was fine. Maybe a little gravel rash, but that would be all of it."

* * *

 **Emily**

* * *

It was possible, Emily assumed, that the Hebert girl was good enough at acting to fool her. Possible, but very unlikely; the look of shock on the teen's face would have been hard to counterfeit. _So she's telling the truth. Or thinks she is._ A huge point in her favour, of course, was the fact that she had come in to tell the PRT what was happening. Or what she thought was happening. _In my experience, capes don't usually just go around secretly helping people for the fun of it. There's always a price to pay._

"That's not where she acquired the injuries," Piggot told the girl. "She figured out there was a cape involved just a little bit before you did, and came in to tell us about it. Or at least I'm guessing that's what she was trying to do."

She didn't miss the flare of fear in Taylor's eyes. It wasn't hard to decipher; from the moment that Sophia Hess had been named as a bully, pieces of the puzzle had begun to click together. She still didn't have the whole picture, but there was enough there to guess at the rest. _She thinks that Shadow Stalker wanted to bad-mouth her to the PRT. Which is possibly correct. She was certainly angry enough. And if Shadow Stalker has been bullying her enough to get the attention of this 'guardian angel', then the duct tape would definitely make sense._

"So what _did_ she say about me?"

Piggot gave her a wry smile. "Absolutely nothing. Every time she tried to pass on whatever information she had, she was interrupted." She paused, thinking about it. "About a dozen times, all told."

"So how did she come to be injured?" That was the father, Danny.

"The last interruption came as she was trying to write it on my office wall," Piggot explained. "Aegis was distracted by a flock of seagulls and crashed through my office window. He then put Miss Hess _through_ the wall she was writing on."

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

I stared at Dad and he stared at me. "Okay, there's two things that really worry me about that," I told the Director. "First, the fact that this was happening while I was still at home. The second thing is that I don't see how that could have been done with telekinesis."

"Unless Aegis was _pulled_ through the window?" Dad suggested.

The Director shook her head firmly. "I spoke with him at length and he confirmed that he was just coming in too low. Plus, the timing was incredibly precise. It was with everything that happened to her. There is no way that anyone could have manoeuvred them into just the right positions at the right time, not to mention have two different people call me up at just the right times, without something far beyond simple telekinesis."

I was lost. "Beyond …?" I asked blankly.

"Probability manipulation," she explained briskly. "Changing the likelihood of some specific event happening until it's either inevitable or impossible." She laced her fingers together and looked at me over them. "Now, from your description and from what I understand of the events so far, you are correct in being worried abut your 'guardian angel'. So far, he's only escalated events, turning the tables on your bullies. But what if he decides that someone poses a threat to your life? Will he kill to protect you, even if it turns out that he's wrong, later on?"

"I don't know." I shook my head. "I don't even know who might be doing it. I don't _have_ any friends in Winslow." _Well, maybe Greg Veder,_ I amended silently.

"Are you certain?" the Director asked.

"Okay, there's _one_ guy who kind of likes me," I told her, "but he's a bit of a creeper. Also, he was nowhere near me any of the times it happened." I paused. "Except once, in World Affairs class. But not any of the other times. Also, if he was protecting me, he'd be calling me up and telling me about it. The boy can't keep a secret."

"I'll have to take your word about his lack of discretion," she replied thoughtfully. "But the questions to consider are twofold: what does your 'guardian angel' consider sufficient reason to use his powers on your behalf, and what level of surveillance does he have on you in order to know when to use them?"

"Well, if this Sophia was affected by his powers while we were still at home, he must have been focusing on her, not on him," Danny suggested. "Which means he can switch surveillance targets. And that he can tell if someone is _about_ to do something to affect Taylor adversely."

"Well, she _could_ have been trying to talk about something else altogether," I pointed out. "Although, knowing how vindictive she can be, I'd say that's not totally likely."

"Just as a side-note, I'll need full disclosure on her bullying activities, so that I can pass them on to the appropriate authorities," the Director noted casually. "I may not have jurisdiction over non-parahumans, but that doesn't mean that I'm willing to let something like that slide."

"Don't forget Emma and Madison too," I told her. "They're just as bad."

"Oh yes, of course," she agreed. "So, regarding your 'guardian angel'. Does he seem to be willing to strike at innocent targets, or bring disproportionate punishment on people trying to prank you?"

I thought about that for a moment. "Not that I could see, in either circumstance. But the janitor had spilled coffee on himself and the police had lost an important case. Those two incidents worked out to my favour, but it involved other people having bad luck."

She frowned. "I didn't think the police were involved in this situation. And what does the janitor have to do with it?"

I blinked. "Uh, you didn't know?"

Her frown deepened. "Didn't know what?"

Dad cleared his throat. "Monday last week, Taylor was locked into her locker by some of the bullies. She can't prove that it was any of the three main ones, but by all accounts it was very nasty in there. The janitor who let her out had just spilled coffee on himself and only went that way because he was going to clean himself off. And the police have taken notice because they had a major case fall through just that day."

Piggot's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "Well, _that_ puts an interesting spin on matters. The locker was very nasty, you say?"

I shuddered. "Imagine sharing a vertical steel coffin with the worst toxic waste imaginable. Then square it. That's about one percent of what it was like. I still can't get to sleep with the lights off."

"Hmm." She rubbed her chin. "Excuse me a moment." Standing up, she left the room, taking the voice recorder with her.

I shared a glance with Dad. "Okay, that was a bit weird," I murmured.

"Well, at least she's sympathetic," he pointed out. "And she believes you."

"That is something," I agreed, then paused. "Is it just me, or is she showing a _tiny_ bit more interest in Sophia than Emma or Madison?"

"Huh." He seemed to think about that for a moment. "It's possible. I didn't notice. Though I found it interesting that she was talking to Sophia in her office when Aegis came visiting. _We_ had to come in with news of a potentially dangerous cape. _She_ just walked in off of the street, and still got to talk to the Director face-to-face."

"Yeah," I replied. "I -" The door opened again, and I shut up.

* * *

 **Emily**

* * *

Having taken care of preparations, she re-entered the room and sat down. "So, where were we?"

"You were just talking about how what happened last Monday puts an interesting spin on things." Dad looked interested. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"Well, it gives us more data points to work with, for one thing." She smiled blandly. "I'm presuming you skipped school until this week?"

"Uh, yeah," Taylor agreed. "Dad took care of me. I took a lot of showers, the first few days. At least now I can work up a sweat without wanting to run screaming."

Emily looked directly at her. "Well, take it from me that experiences like that will change you," she told me softly. "They will always be with you. There's no getting away from that fact. However, it's up to you what you do with that."

Taylor opened her mouth to reply, but the words never came out, because at that moment the door opened. A PRT soldier stood there; incongruously, in one hand, he held a bright red plastic bucket.

Taking a step into the room, he hoisted the bucket and let fly with the contents. They were supposed to go all over Taylor – those were his specific orders – but at the last moment, he got one foot caught behind the other. The bucket turned, and Emily found herself deluged with cold tap water. The soldier ended up face-down on the floor, the bucket on his head.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the dribble of water from Emily's soaked clothing on to the floor. Then the soldier scrambled to his feet, fighting to drag the bucket from his head. "Ma'am, sorry, ma'am," he blurted. "I didn't mean – I tripped -"

"Quite all right, Corporal," she told him. "I kind of expected that to happen." She rose to her feet and gestured to the other two. "Come on. The corporal needs to find a mop and clean up this mess. I, on the other hand, need to change. We can talk some more afterward."

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

"Okay, what the heck happened there?"

As I spoke, I took a sandwich and nibbled on it. Egg salad, not too bad.

Dad poured hot water into his coffee cup from the electric jug – we had been moved to a lunch room while the Director got changed – and added milk before stirring. He seemed to take his time about thinking over his answer, but he got there eventually.

"I think that was a test," he decided. "A test for your guardian angel. She gave that soldier the order to douse you with a bucket of water. The prank rebounded on her for the most part, but the soldier tripped and got the bucket on his head for his part in it."

"Yeah, I pretty well got that bit," I agreed, finishing off the sandwich and grabbing another. "But _why?_ She knew that it was all true. She would have seen it with Sophia. In fact, she expected more or less that very thing to happen. She even said as much."

He sipped at the coffee. "I think it was a test _for_ the guardian angel, not to prove that he exists. Emma, Sophia, Madison, they all had lots of malice toward you, so they got punished very thoroughly. Arranging for you to be doused in cold water required some sort of punishment, but there was no malice in it, so she simply got doused instead. Tit for tat."

"Precisely." The door opened and Director Piggot entered. Her suit, identical to the one she had been wearing before, was dry. She showed no other signs of the incident with the bucket. "I had my suspicions, so I set up the situation. Besides, there's something else that you need to know about your guardian angel."

I turned to face her. "What's that?"

She waited until Dad and I were giving her our complete and undivided attention.

"He doesn't exist."

* * *

End of Part Four


	5. Chapter 5

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Five: Gathering Troubles

* * *

 **Emily**

* * *

She sat back in her chair and awaited the reaction from the two people before her. It wasn't long in coming.

"Wait, what? That can't be right." That was the father, Danny. He frowned as the full impact of her words registered on him. "You're saying … it's _Taylor?"_

Taylor, on the other hand, looked at her father then back at Emily. "What? I _don't_ have a guardian angel? But …"

Then it was Danny's turn again. "Seriously, I think you'd better explain that."

The Director laced her fingers on the desk in front of her. "I've been doing this job a long time. While powers come in more variations than even the old-style comic book writers could imagine, there are some aspects that show up, again and again. The first one is that powers are _direct._ They don't do things half-assed or sideways. If the power effect is the same three or four times in a row, it's not an accident."

She took a deep breath. "And the other thing is that people are still people, whether they've got powers or not. I've _never_ come across someone using his power to help someone who doesn't even know him, in secret, without trying to communicate in some way. Capes always want something in return. _Always._ Even if it's just recognition, or a thank-you." _And powers just make it worse,_ she thought sourly. _Children with machine-guns._

Taylor was frowning. "But … it's _possible,_ right?"

"Certainly, it's possible, yes," agreed Emily. "Possible, but somewhat improbable." She opened a drawer and pulled out a pad. Pulling her pen from her pocket – it had been checked, and was in full working order – she clicked it and drew a line down the centre of the pad. On one side, she wrote POWER; on the other, she wrote GUARDIAN ANGEL.

"Now, let's list the pros and cons of whether you're powered or not," she said. "You've already stated that you don't know who could be doing this, yes?"

"Well, yeah," Taylor agreed. "I mean, it _could_ be Greg, but if it was, he'd be dropping hints all over school."

"Unless his power doesn't let him tell anyone," Danny interjected. "Isn't it true that powers sometimes do something like that?"

"Well, yes," Emily admitted. "It happens, but it's rare." On the pad she wrote 'Greg – gagged?' on the 'guardian angel' side. On the other side, she drew a line.

"Well, that's easy to check," Danny pointed out. "Taylor can ask him."

Taylor grimaced. "Dad, are you sure you know what you're asking?"

He turned his head to look at her. "Why, what's the matter with Greg?"

She shook her head. "He's got no clue. Not a single one. People could ignore and ostracise him, and he wouldn't notice. If I even _hinted_ that he might be doing this for me, he'd jump on it with both feet and convince _himself_ that he's doing it."

"And if he is?" asked Emily. "What then?"

Both Danny and Taylor turned to stare at her. "I thought you were saying it _wasn't_ him," Danny objected.

"I've also learned that it doesn't pay to rule anything out, no matter how improbable, when it comes to powers," she told him. "It's unlikely, certainly. But that doesn't make it impossible. So, Taylor, what are you going to do if it does turn out that this Greg has these powers and is helping you with them?"

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

Both the Director and my father were looking at me; I shrank back under their combined stares. "I … I don't know," I confessed. "I mean, I guess he kind of likes me, probably because I don't brush him off like everyone else. But he's a little bit creepy, and while I don't _dislike_ him, I don't actually like him all that much either."

"And why's that?" asked the Director, almost gently.

"Well, for one thing," I said, getting my thoughts together, "sometimes we're placed together for a class project." A shudder rippled through me as I recalled the debacle that had been the last such project. "When that happens, he spends more time trying to talk to the pretty girls in the class than to me. So it's not even really me that he likes, just the fact that I don't tell him to go away."

"Yes, I've known people like that," agreed the Director. "Well, here's the next question. If it turned out that he was indeed your guardian angel, would you rather he protected someone else – and gave them all his attention – or stayed to help you?"

"Oh, god," I muttered. "I'm not sure which would be worse. I mean, unless he _can't_ talk to me about it. But even if that was the case, owing Greg that, and knowing that he's doing it because he likes me, and I don't like him … ugh." I looked beseechingly at Director Piggot. "Is there any way to prove that it's not him without actually asking him?"

She seemed to be almost amused, which wasn't too much of a surprise. "Actually, yes, there is. And there is already a weight of evidence to show that this is you causing it and not your classmate."

"There is?" asked Dad. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Because we needed to explore the other hypothesis first, so you'd be ready to look at this one with an open mind," she explained.

"Oh, my mind is open, trust me," I assured her fervently.

"Very well." She tapped the pen on the pad. "Let's go through the spectrum of powers that a hypothetical guardian angel would need. Telekinesis, some sort of Master power. Stranger capabilities to be right there and not be seen. Some sort of clairvoyance, because from your own account, more than one thing was happening at once, in two different places."

"So what would Taylor need in order for this to be just her?" asked Dad, frowning.

"Some form of precognition, limited to events that would cause her problems, and probability manipulation to change events to suit her," the Director recited promptly.

"But I'm not _doing_ it!" I protested. "I don't see what's going to happen. And I definitely don't deliberately alter events to suit me."

"Not deliberately, no," she agreed. "But it's happening all the same." Carefully, she laid the pen down and then crossed one hand over the other on the desk. "I had a strong inkling of what was going on before you ever walked into the building. I mean you no harm, and your power knows it." A dry smile crossed her face. "Bad things happen to people who try to harm you. I have no intention of joining that number."

"Wow." Dad looked from her to me. "You're really serious."

"Utterly." There was no humour in her tone or on her face now.

"So what other evidence do you have?" I was curious now. "So far it's all been circumstantial." Dad looked at me. I shrugged. "What? I've heard Mr Barnes talk about this sort of thing."

Director Piggot inclined her head. "True. But the clincher is what brought all this on. Have you ever heard of a trigger event?"

I frowned. "Uh, isn't that where parahumans get their powers?"

"Exactly." She replaced the pen in her pocket. "By all accounts, a trigger event is essentially the worst thing that can happen to someone. It's what causes powers to emerge. _You've_ been through a horrific experience, very recently."

"Oh. Yeah." I didn't want to think about it, but there it was. "So … the locker caused me to become … lucky?"

"Very broadly speaking, that's what I think happened, yes." She tapped her forehead with her finger. "Also, triggering causes part of the brain to develop in a very specific way. With your consent, a CT scan could pick this up."

I shook my head. "No … I think I'll take your word for it."

"Yeah." Dad nodded. "Me too." He paused. "So where do we go from here?"

"From here …" Director Piggot rubbed her chin, then obviously came to a decision. "Miss Hebert, I would like to formally invite you to -" She broke into a fit of coughing as a bug flew into her mouth.

"Are you okay?" Dad was halfway to his feet.

She waved him away, pulling out a handkerchief. The spasm over, she looked at me. "On second thought, I would like to retract the offer. It seems to be a bad idea."

"Why?" Dad looked from me to the Director. "I'm assuming you were going to ask her to join the Wards. It seems like a reasonable idea to me. Taylor?"

I shrugged. "I guess I wouldn't have any problems with it. But if you say my power doesn't like it …"

Director Piggot grimaced. "Well, that _may_ have been a random bug, but I'm not going to take any chances. If you wish to join, then we will accept you, but I am specifically _not_ inviting you to join the Wards at this point in time."

"I, uh … can I think about it?"

"Certainly." She spread her hands. "Take all the time you want."

"Okay, thanks." I looked at Dad. "Was there anything else we wanted to do here?"

He considered the question. "No, not really." Turning to the Director, he went on. "We just wanted to let you know about Taylor's guardian angel or, as it turns out, her power. Is there anything else you wanted to know?"

"No," she replied. "Let me know what you decide. I'm not going to push you on this one."

If anything was going to underscore for me how serious my powers were, and that I had powers at all, it was the sight of Director Piggot, obviously used to getting her own way, very carefully deferring to my wishes in the matter.

Dad and I got up and he opened the door for me. "Thanks for seeing us on such short notice," I told the Director. "When I figure out what I'm going to do, you'll be the first to know."

* * *

 **Emily**

* * *

"I would appreciate that," she said. She watched the teenage girl and her father exit her office, the door closing behind them. Then she finally let herself relax, the tension of carefully watching her every word slowly draining away.

She had, in her career, faced many capes, quite often in this very office. Some had been arrogant, some reasonable, some downright obsequious. _Though precious few of the latter, I have to say._ She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of capes with such a capricious power, one over which they apparently had little to no control, that she had encountered. She wouldn't admit to being scared, exactly, but there was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered her thoughts. "Right," she muttered. "So Shadow Stalker was bullying that girl, huh? Let's see about _that."_

Belatedly, she realised exactly what the bug had been about. Had Taylor joined the Wards, with Shadow Stalker already a member, the blow-up would have been as inevitable as it was devastating. _If her power then decided that the entire PRT and Protectorate were a danger to her …_ She shuddered at the thought.

Picking up the phone, she dialled a number. "Armsmaster?" she queried. "Good. I need you to meet me here. We have an investigation to begin."

* * *

 **Danny**

* * *

 _I hope she'll be okay._

He was pretty sure he was worrying needlessly, but Taylor's sufferings were still very fresh in his memory. He had to stop himself from getting up and leaving the office, or at least picking up the phone and calling her.

 _She's fine. She's got the phone, she can call me if she needs anything._ He had left her bundled up in her favourite blanket on the sofa, watching TV and eating cookie dough.

"I'm _good,"_ she had insisted. "If TV gets boring, I'll read a book. If _that_ gets boring, I'll take a nap. You need to go and prove that they need you at work."

She had a point. He was perennially backlogged with paperwork even on the good days; leaving early, as he had been doing recently, was not doing his in-tray any favours at all. So he stopped glancing at the phone and turned back to the report he was reading.

Picking up the document from the desk, he turned slowly on his chair as he skimmed through it, then settled down to read it more closely. Frowning, he finally managed to engage his mind with what the report was saying, and read it a third time. Then he got up and went to a filing cabinet. From there, he pulled a sheaf of similar reports, through which he skimmed, looking for one piece of data. As he did so, the frown on his face grew deeper and deeper.

After cross-checking some old roster sheets, with the relevant reports in hand – the rest went back into the filing cabinet – he sat back down at his desk and pressed a button on his intercom.

" _Yes, Mr Hebert?"_

"Louise, could you please have …" He re-checked the name on the report. "Lee Adamson paged, please? I need him to report to this office immediately."

" _Lee Adamson, right away."_

"Thank you." He disengaged the button and dropped the reports on the desk. While he waited, he checked the date on the latest one. It had been submitted just the previous day; if he had not chosen to come in to finish his working day, it may have languished in the in-tray for at least another day.

* * *

 **Lee Adamson**

* * *

Adamson knocked on the doorframe. "You wanted to see me, Mr Hebert?"

He'd never been able to figure out how a weedy guy like Hebert had managed to make it in the Dockworkers Association, a trade that was rough and tough by its very nature. But here he was, the union spokesman and head of hiring, not the face of the Association but one of the people who managed to keep it going.

Danny Hebert looked up from the paper he was reading, the light reflecting momentarily from his glasses. Adamson saw that he looked worn, with a few more lines on his face. Maybe he was losing sleep over something. The rumour that was making the rounds was that something had happened to his daughter. Everyone knew that he'd left work in a hell of a hurry a few days back and he'd been knocking off early ever since.

 _Oh well, like I give a shit._ It wasn't Adamson's problem. His job was to do the work the Association gave him and, when required, to perform the _other_ duties set him by his real employer.

"Yes, come in. Close the door and sit down, please."

Lee did as he was told, taking a seat in the aged chair before the desk. "What's this about?"

Hebert took his time answering, picking up several sheets of paper and carefully stacking them together. Finally, he placed them in front of Lee. "Do you know what these are?"

 _Oh shit._ The tone of voice, the whole attitude, clued Lee in on the fact that he was in trouble of some sort. He desperately wanted to read the papers, but settled for scanning the top lines. "Uh, incident reports, Mr Hebert?"

"That's correct, Lee," Hebert said. "Incident reports about items missing from shipping manifests in a regular pattern. Specifically, in a pattern where you're the common denominator in all the work crews that unloaded the items in question."

"Now wait just a minute -" Lee began, but Hebert overrode him.

"No, Mr Adamson, you wait just a minute. I haven't finished talking." He paused for a moment, to be sure that Lee wasn't going to interrupt, then went on. "I don't _know_ that it's you that's been taking these items, and I don't know why they've been getting taken. Right now, I don't even know what's been taken. But I'm going to investigate all of these things, and I'm going to come to the truth of the matter. Is that understood?"

 _Shit shit shit._ Lee understood, all right. He'd taken items from cargo being unloaded before; of course he had. He'd been getting paid extra to do just that. But he didn't expect the shift bosses to be as vigilant as they were; after all, he'd been getting away with it so far.

He became aware that Hebert was looking at him expectantly. "Uh, yes, I understand."

"Good." Hebert looked him up and down. "Now, these are quite serious allegations, so you're being suspended with pay until it's all sorted out -"

"Wait, what?" Hebert couldn't _do_ that. There was another shipment due tomorrow evening, one that he _had_ to be on the work crew for. "You can't -"

Hebert slapped the desk with his palm, making Lee jump. "I can and I will. Right now, you're only suspended with pay. If you're found guilty of any criminal activity, the penalties will get a lot worse. Is there anything you want to say to me that might clear this up?"

Several possible explanations scrolled through Lee's head; unfortunately, each seemed more problematic than the last.

 _I'm being set up._

 _It's all a conspiracy to get me fired._

 _Okay, I took the stuff, but I'll never do it again._

 _I'm really working for -_

He cut that last thought off. No _way_ he was going to let anyone know who was paying him under the table. Hebert was well known for not hiring anyone with gang affiliations.

"Uh, no," he mumbled. "Nothing."

"Very well, Mr Adamson," Hebert told him. "I'm going to require that you leave the site immediately. We'll contact you with the result of the investigation." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "Don't worry; I won't tell anyone why you were suspended."

Small mercies, indeed. "But I need the work. I -"

"Perhaps you didn't hear me," Hebert reminded him. "Suspension _with pay._ You're getting a vacation. If you're blameless, then you have nothing to worry about." _If we find out that you've been taking stuff,_ he didn't have to say, _then you_ _ **do**_ _have something to worry about._

Lee didn't want to push the issue. _Keep my head down, don't make him wonder what's so special about that shipment._ "Uh, okay." Some part of him wanted to thank Hebert, but what was there to thank him for, really?

"That'll be all. Hand in your helmet, your vest and your ID before you leave." Hebert's attention was already on the next piece of paperwork.

For just a moment, Lee wanted to grab the scrawny pencil-pusher by the neck and throttle him, if only to make him realise what he was up against. _It's people like him that screw things up for people like me._ But he didn't. His orders were to not make waves, to pretend to be a good little employee. So he pushed open the door and left.

* * *

" _Hello?"_

" _It's Adamson."_

" _Why are you calling?"_

" _There's a problem."_

" _Those are not words I want to hear. What I want to hear is 'there was a problem but I sorted it out'."_

" _No, I can't. Hebert just suspended me. Took me off work."_

" _Why?"_

There was a long pause.

" _Adamson, why did he suspend you?"_

" _He might have figured that I was taking stuff."_

" _Damn it, you were supposed to be being discreet!"_

" _I_ _ **was**_ _being discreet. Nobody saw me. But they were keeping a count of items being offloaded and he must have put it together."_

" _Christ. Does he know?"_

" _Hell no. What do you take me for? Right now he thinks I might be a thief, but that's it."_

" _Do we have anyone else who can cover for the shift tomorrow?"_

" _No."_

" _All right, leave it with me."_

" _What are you going to do?"_

" _Whatever I have to do."_

" _I don't like the sound of that."_

" _I didn't ask your opinion."_

And then there was just the dial tone.

* * *

 **Triumph**

* * *

Rory looked up as the buzzer sounded. "Masks!" he called out. Dropping his cards, he fitted his lion's-head helmet over his head. Aegis, sitting opposite him, was already masked up; Kid Win, at the monitor console, hadn't taken his visor off.

They all came to their feet as the doors opened. Director Piggot led the way into the room, with Armsmaster following behind.

"Uh … Director Piggot?" Rory queried. "What's the matter?" _Did we do something wrong?_

"Nothing's the matter," Armsmaster assured him. "You're not in trouble. Though we do need you for something." He nodded to Kid Win and Aegis. "Could you please leave the room?"

With quick glances at their team leader, the two Wards headed for the door. Triumph watched them go, then turned back toward Armsmaster and the Director. "Uh, what exactly is going on?"

"What's going on," Piggot answered him curtly, "is that Shadow Stalker has been making fools of us all and we're going to get to the bottom of this right now."

"Shadow Stalker?" Rory repeated blankly. "Okay, sure, she's a bit abrasive and not really a team player, but …"

"We've received serious allegations that she's engaging in ongoing bullying activities in her civilian identity," Armsmaster said grimly. "If she's doing that, then she may be doing other things in her cape identity. We need to open her locker and look for any indication that this may be the case. Director Piggot wants you and me to be her witnesses in this situation."

"Wait, but she's in the hospital," Triumph objected. "You're not even giving her a chance to defend herself."

"If we find something suspicious, then she will have the chance to defend herself," Piggot stated flatly. "If we don't, then she won't need to. As it is, I have recently had one of the most unsettling conversations of my career entirely due to her, and _I_ don't wish to be blindsided like that again. Ever."

Rory blinked. Clockblocker liked to make jokes about 'Miss Piggy' – hell, they all did – but he'd grown up around politics. He'd seen the steel in her spine more times than he could count. To hear her admit to being unsettled was a new experience. _She's serious about this._

"Uh, yes, ma'am," he replied. "Her locker's right this way."

* * *

 **Danny**

* * *

His eyes ached from reading through forms and his hand was in little better condition from scrawling his signature at the bottom of those same forms. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, then replaced them to look at the clock on the wall.

"Christ," he muttered. "It's after seven. Taylor will be worried sick."

Getting out of his chair, he glanced into the outer office, preparing to tell Louise to go home already. To his surprise, he saw that the desk there was empty, that his office light was the only one still on. Rubbing his forehead, he conjured up a vague memory of his secretary telling him that she was going home; he'd mumbled some sort of reply then gotten back to the attack on his overdue paperwork. If there was another Lee Adamson lurking in the in-tray that he missed because he'd been going home early …

Turning back to his desk, he saw that the pile in the in-tray had indeed been greatly reduced. There was still a deal of work to do, but not so much that he couldn't get it done tomorrow. And he had to get home to Taylor. Somewhat recovered she might be, but she was still fragile.

Shrugging into his jacket, he turned off the desk light and then the office light. He was just locking his office door when he heard the scrape of a shoe on worn linoleum. Turning, he watched as someone stepped into the doorway of the outer office.

"Who's that?" he asked. "Kurt?"

"No, not Kurt." The voice belonged to a man, but it wasn't one that Danny knew.

"Who is it?" Danny frowned. "How did you get in here?"

"The door was open." The man's voice was light, almost amused. "Who I am doesn't matter. What matters is what I'd like you to do."

"And what's that?" Danny squinted to try to make out the man's face, but the corridor light was behind him.

"Take Lee Adamson off of suspension." The voice was flat. "Put him back on the roster."

"What? No." Danny shook his head. "The man's under suspicion of theft."

There was a sigh, then the man reached into his jacket. Danny tensed, but the only sound he heard was the rustle of paper against cloth. An envelope, quite visible in the dimness, came into view; the man held it out to him. "Here's an incentive. You never took Adamson off the roster. I was never here."

"How much?" The question came out before he thought about it.

"Five large." He could hear the smugness in the voice. "I hear your little girl has some medical bills to pay off. This'll cover that with room to spare."

Involuntarily, he took a step forward, his hands clenching into fists. "Don't you bring Taylor into this," he grated. "And don't you ever come in here trying to bribe me for anything. Adamson's on suspension and that's where he'll stay till I find out what he's guilty of. Now get the fuck out of here before I throw you out. And take your dirty money with you."

"Now, now." The voice was still urbane, still calm and collected. "No need for any rough stuff. This doesn't need to be anything more than a civilised arrangement between gentlemen. I'll give you twelve hours to think about it."

Danny breathed heavily. "Twelve hours, twenty-four, forty-eight, I don't give a flying fuck. The Dockworkers don't do business with organised crime. That's the way it's always been and that's the way it'll always be. Now fuck off. And the moment I find one _shred_ of evidence that Adamson's connected, he goes too. For good."

"Twelve hours. You'll be hearing from us." The man stepped back then sideways, disappearing from his sight. Danny came forward, snatching up a dimly-seen chair, brandishing it as he moved into the corridor. He saw nothing; all he heard were diminishing footsteps.

"Damn it," he muttered, stepping back into the office. As he put the chair down, he became aware of his racing heartbeat, the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

* * *

 **Armsmaster**

* * *

"Damn it," muttered the Director. She looked over the contents of Shadow Stalker's locker, arrayed on the table. A spare costume, knee and elbow pads, two masks, each bearing the scowling-woman visage, her Tinkertech crossbows and several cases of arrows. Colin had been over the arrows carefully; they were the blunted type or the tranquilliser type exclusively. "I was sure we'd find something."

"I'm sorry, Director," Triumph said carefully. "Maybe she just isn't … what you think she is."

"I was given evidence that she is, or rather was, bullying one of her classmates to an extraordinary degree," gritted Piggot. "Now, do you think she'd do that in her civilian identity and not break the rules in _any_ way as a cape?"

"I still think it's unfair on her to be targeted like this while she's still in the hospital," argued Triumph. "She can't even present her own side of the story. She doesn't even _know_ this is happening." He gestured at the paraphernalia spread on the table. "And it looks like there was nothing to find anyway."

Armsmaster was rubbing his chin and frowning. Something was off, here. Something was missing.

"There's something." The Director's voice was iron-hard with certainty. "I just -"

"Director." He nearly had it.

"What?" snapped Piggot.

Colin snapped his fingers; a hard trick in armoured gauntlets, but one that he had worked to master. "Her Wards phone. It's not here."

She scanned the table. "You're right. It's not."

"Uh, that's because I've got it," Triumph admitted.

"You? Why do you have it?" Colin got the question in just before the Director, but only just.

"Aegis took it off of her after the accident and he handed it over to me." Triumph shrugged. "I was gonna hang on to it, give it back once she was conscious and lucid."

"Sensible," Armsmaster conceded. "Though you really should have handed it in to one of us."

"In fact, you'll hand it over right now," Piggot ordered him, holding out her hand.

Slowly, Triumph withdrew the phone from a belt pouch and gave it to her. "What do you think you'll find on it, ma'am? She'll have known you have access to anything that's on it. Even if she's been breaking the rules, she won't be doing it using that phone."

"Doesn't she carry a second phone, a civilian one?" Colin asked.

"She did," Triumph agreed. "But I heard it got stolen. She was really upset about that."

Piggot snorted. "'Upset' wasn't the word. But I'm not interested in her message traffic. I'm interested in another type of data." Turning, she placed the phone in Armsmaster's hand. "I want you to do something for me."

* * *

End of Part Five


	6. Chapter 6

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Six: Bolt from the Blue

* * *

 **Miami, Florida  
01:13 AM**

* * *

It started as a minor weather system that came together off the coast, then rolled in over land. There wasn't much to it; a little rain fell, while thunder rumbled overhead. One bolt of lightning crackled down out of the heavy clouds, hitting a power-line transformer. The transformer weathered the strike easily, but an electrical surge went out in all directions. Circuit breakers popped in a dozen different locations, including the refrigeration area of a local airline meal supplier.

The refrigeration units shut down, but due to poor programming of the computers controlling the facility, no alarm was sent and no fault was logged. Three hours later, the automated system reset the breakers and the refrigeration units hummed to life once more. By the time the human workers arrived on site, everything was back the way it had been, with nothing in the logs to show that anything out of the ordinary had happened. But certain foodstuffs had spent several hours at room temperature, with the expected result.

In the meantime, the rain had spread up the coast. Weather forecasters on the morning shows would note that it was going to be bumpy flying on the eastern seaboard today.

* * *

 **Brockton Bay  
08:06 AM  
Danny**

* * *

He had been at work for all of half an hour before the phone rang; he picked it up. "Dockworkers Association. Danny Hebert speaking."

" _Mr Hebert, we spoke last night."_ The voice was all too familiar.

"And I've still got nothing to say to you except 'no'." Danny kept his voice low. "Pursuant to that, I'd like to add 'hell no' and 'go fuck yourself' as well."

" _Mr Hebert, I'd like to point out that I've been authorised to increase the gratuity to ten thousand dollars."_ He had to admit, the man was good. His voice was warm and persuasive, and Danny was almost tempted. But 'almost' wasn't good enough.

"Go to hell." He put the phone down.

There was a freedom, he found, in being able to deny another person something they wanted from you, something that you did not want to give. Could he do with ten thousand dollars? Of course he could. But could he accept the inevitable strings that would slowly, inexorably, invisibly enmesh him into tighter and tighter coils if he allowed this first bribe to go through?

The answer, of course, was 'no'.

Part of it was his own personal pride, while another part was his need for the Dockworkers to remain the same honest association that they had been in his father's day. A third part, perhaps most important of all, was what Taylor would think of him if she knew he had taken a bribe, looked the other way to allow criminals to act with impunity within the Association.

 _Taylor …_

He hadn't been a total idiot about it, of course. On leaving the offices the previous night, he had taken along a heavy wrench that someone had left in the corner. Nobody had been waiting in the parking lot or in the back seat of his car; he had seen enough slasher movies to at least know to check there before getting into the car.

Taylor had been asleep on the sofa when he got in; woken up, she had eaten dinner with him then stumbled her way up to bed. He had also gone to bed after the washing up, though he had lain awake for a while, going over the implications of the night-time visitor.

Adamson was connected, of course. He wasn't Asian, so it wasn't to the ABB. Likewise, Danny somehow didn't think it was the Merchants. So it had to be the Empire Eighty-Eight that was trying a move on the Dockworkers. They had tried bribery; he had turned them down. Would they turn to violence next?

Violence against himself he could deal with. If they beat him up, the police would become involved, something that they most definitely did not want. But if they tried to use Taylor as leverage against him …

He had only seen a minor demonstration of Taylor's power at first hand. The images of Emma and Madison and Sophia following their attempts to prank her were quite compelling; he found himself praying that the power would be able to protect her just as thoroughly against the new threat as it had against the bullies. _Because if I cave once, I'll have to cave again, and again, until it becomes habit. And then what sort of a man, what sort of a father, will I be?_

He had wrestled with the problem until his thoughts became dreams, where he literally wrestled with a shadowy figure who sneered Taylor's name over and over. These dreams were shattered by his morning alarm; he awoke, tangled in his sheets, covered in sweat. Taylor had been a little puzzled by his insistence on driving her to school, but had accepted readily enough. He would pick her up from there as well, just in case …

"Mr Hebert? Did you hear what I just said?"

With a start, he shook himself and looked up into Louise's concerned face. "Sorry," he muttered. "Had a rough night. Must have drifted off."

She shook her head wisely. "Staying at the office all hours to catch up on paperwork doesn't help either, Mr Hebert. Plus your home troubles. How's your girl doing?"

"Uh, fine, Louise, thanks," he replied. "She's recovering quickly." Standing up, he stretched, feeling the vertebrae popping. "I think I'll get a cup of coffee."

"I think that might be a good idea, Mr Hebert," she agreed. "After all, we can't have you falling asleep on the job."

"No, Louise, we certainly can't." He took the papers from her hand and placed them on his desk. "And I'll look at these just as soon as I get back with the cup."

"Just so long as you go home at a regular hour tonight," she ordered him sternly. "You need to be a father to your girl as well, you know."

"I think you're right," he said. "I really do."

* * *

 **Director Piggot**

* * *

She stood in Armsmaster's workshop, trying hard not to look as though she was peering over his shoulder at the computer screen, even though that was exactly what she wanted to do.

"So, is it working?" None of the uncertainty or doubt that had crept into her mind over the previous night was allowed to show in her voice. _It_ _ **will**_ _work,_ she told herself. _It has to._

"Interestingly enough, Director, it is." Armsmaster's voice held wary respect. "How did you know?"

A wintry smile formed on her face. "You may have forgotten that I was once a line grunt. Bad soldiers might hide their bad habits, but they keep a stash somewhere of whatever it is. The dumb ones hide it in their lockers or in the barracks. The smart ones hide it elsewhere, some place they can get to without raising suspicion."

"Which for her is the whole city," he noted.

"It is," she agreed. "But she has to carry her Wards phone. And that phone has a GPS tracker, which logs her location on a regular basis. Normally it takes quite a bit of work to scrape those locations out and apply them to a map, but you're a Tinker who works with electronics and computers. And you say it's working?"

"It is," he confirmed. "There's a limit to the number of locations that it's stored, but there's enough of them to give us a place to look. It's a building about three blocks from here. She's stopped in there enough times over the last few weeks to make it look fairly suspicious."

Piggot's smile showed her teeth. _"Good."_

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

It was kind of weird to not have to worry about Emma and her cronies for once. I kept expecting them to pop around the corner with some new prank or hurtful comment. But Sophia and Emma were in the hospital and I hadn't seen Madison all day. A few of their cronies were around, but they were leaving me alone, which suited me just fine.

Head high, I joined the lunch line along with everyone else. Carefully, I made my selections; a pita wrap, a banana, a bottle of fruit juice. A container of chocolate pudding made up dessert; I took myself off to a table to enjoy my meal.

I wondered what the afternoon would bring. If it was more of the same, I could definitely deal with that. I could get _used_ to this.

* * *

 **Aboard American Airlines Flight 732, Miami FL to Portland ME  
01:46 PM**

* * *

American 732 was an older aircraft, with the usual metal fatigue developing here and there on the airframe. None of it had, as yet, become problematic. However, after takeoff, the aircraft had flown into a region of unsettled weather, with higher than usual turbulence. This had shaken American 732 around a little; a hairline crack on the exterior toilet tank hatch had become somewhat more than hairline.

The passengers had, after takeoff, enjoyed their in-flight meals, such as they were. Unfortunately, this was followed by a certain amount of gastric distress, given that said meals had been improperly refrigerated over the previous night. Queues quickly developed outside each toilet cubicle; the waste products thus flowing into the toilet tanks were both voluminous and, it has to be said, runny.

In the meantime, the pilot had decided to climb out of the turbulence; he asked for, and got, permission to gain altitude. The turbulence decreased dramatically, but this had two unforeseen effects. The first was that the outflow from the crack in the hatch was increased due to lower outside air pressure. The second was that the higher altitude resulted in lower temperatures; the blue liquid, comprised of water, disinfectant and human waste products, froze more quickly, adding layer upon layer to the mass already collecting beneath the tail of the aircraft.

As yet, this had not affected the performance of American 732. This would change.

* * *

 **Panacea**

* * *

"And that should do it." Panacea removed her hands from Sophia's shoulder. "All the breaks are fixed. You may have a mild concussion; I can't do anything about that. Any lasting muscular soreness may require rest and relaxation. Take it easy for a few days."

The dark-skinned girl worked her shoulder. "Yeah, no, feels fine." Grudgingly, she added, "Thanks."

Amy shrugged slightly. "Don't thank me. This was a favour for your Director. Take care now." She turned and exited through a gap in the curtains. Director Piggot was standing a short distance away; Amy joined her. "It's done," she reported.

"I appreciate it," the Director replied briefly.

"Normally I wouldn't come in for a single cape," Amy pointed out. "But you told Mom it was important. Why?"

Piggot sighed. "We think she might be breaking the rules – and the law – in a big way. We need her on her feet to prove it one way or the other." She gave Panacea a direct stare. "You don't talk about this to anyone."

Amy shrugged. "I don't talk about what I do to anyone anyway. Did you need me for anything else?"

"No. That should be all."

"Okay." Amy headed off to where she was sure Vicky would be flirting with the most handsome doctor she could find. _Because Vicky._

* * *

 **Danny**

* * *

Snapping out of a light doze, he looked at the clock. _2:46._

"Damn it," he muttered, standing up from his desk. He had meant to be gone by 2:30, to ensure that he got to the school in time to pick Taylor up. It was still possible to get there on time, but he'd have to push it.

"I'm heading out," he told Louise on the way through the office, still shrugging into his jacket. "Picking up Taylor from school."

"That's fine," she replied, not looking up from her computer screen; her fingers barely paused on the keyboard. "Give her my best."

"I will," he promised, then turned and dashed out the door. Along the corridor he went, out through the outer doors and into the parking lot. His car was parked a little way away and he hurried through the ranks of vehicles to get to it. But when he got there, something seemed odd about it.

It took him a few moments to get it, but when he did, he swore violently. The back tyre had obviously been punctured; the car had settled in that direction.

 _Pretty sure I didn't do that coming in,_ he told himself, even as he opened the door and popped the trunk. Out came the spare and the jack; he worked like a madman, hoisting the car off the ground and removing the wheel nuts. The wheel came off and he fitted the spare into place, twirling the nuts back on with quick, jerky movements of his fingers.

He only took the time to make sure that the nuts were on reasonably tightly before tossing the tyre and spanner back into the trunk. Letting the jack down, he threw that in too and slammed the trunk. As he climbed back into the car, he carefully didn't check his watch. He didn't _want_ to know how late he was going to be.

 _Oh god, Taylor, please wait for me._

The engine in the old car roared as he gunned it out of the parking lot, but then he had to brake to a halt for traffic. Interminable moments passed before a gap opened up; he fed the car some gasoline and accelerated into it.

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

The bus rumbled away from the front of the school, bearing the last of the students from Winslow. With my bag over my shoulder, I shaded my eyes and looked around.

"Where's Dad?" I wondered out loud. "He said he'd be here."

I turned to walk back to sit on the school steps and started slightly, because a man was standing there.

"I, uh, can I help you?" I asked, nervous despite myself. _He can't hurt me. My power will stop him._

"Taylor?" he asked. "Taylor Hebert?"

I began to get a major creep-factor alarm right between my shoulder-blades. "Who wants to know?"

"Your dad sent me to pick you up. He said to say he was gonna be late."

 _Yeah, right._ This was about as believable as a three-dollar bill. "Sure he did. I think I'll wait right here, thanks." I began to back away from him.

"No, seriously," he insisted. "I'm Lee. Lee Adamson. I'm a Dockworker. I work for your dad."

I began to reconsider my earlier judgement. _Maybe I was a bit hasty._ He had the look of a Dockworker, all right. "Uh, what's his secretary's name?"

"Louise," he replied promptly. "And the carpet in his office is green. The visitor's chair has a wobbly leg."

He was right about all those details. "Okay, Mr Adamson, looks like you're on the level. Let's go."

"Great." He looked relieved. "My car's just over here."

I followed him to the car; he opened the driver's side door and got in. I walked around the car to get into the front passenger side seat, then paused as I saw that there was someone in the back seat. My creep-factor alarm started going off again, as the back door opened and the man got out.

I had never seen him before in person, but I recognised him easily enough. He wore no shirt; on one bicep he wore a tattoo of a wolf's head superimposed over a swastika. On the other, a letter and two numbers. E-8-8. Empire Eighty-Eight. Over his face, he wore a metal mask fashioned to look like a wolf's head.

"Oh, shit," I muttered. "You're Hookwolf."

"Correct." His voice was a growl, made more echoing by the metal mask. "Now do as you're told and get in the fucking car."

Rapidly, I sorted through the possibilities. If my powers were still holding firm, I could get away easily. If they weren't, then I would be quickly captured. Likewise, if I still had powers, going with them would not pose much of a risk to me. Without powers, going willingly would pose less of a risk than forcing them to catch me.

In any case, I was kind of curious as to how this would play out. So I did as I was told and got in the fucking car.

* * *

 **Sophia**

* * *

"How are you feeling, Sophia? That was such a terrible accident. I'm so pleased that the PRT asked Panacea to heal your injuries."

Sophia forced herself not to snap back at her mother. _I'm fine, don't smother me._ But Mom _did_ mean well, and what had happened wasn't her fault. So she manufactured a brave smile instead.

"I'll be fine," she replied. "But I'm still feeling a little headachey, so I think I might take a nap."

In fact, the headache was barely there at all; she could ignore that if she had to.

"All right, dear," her mother replied. "I'll knock on your door when it's dinner time."

"Oh, uh, I don't think I'll be very hungry," Sophia said hastily. "If I don't answer, I'll probably be asleep."

"I'll leave a plate in the fridge for you if that happens," Mom agreed comfortably. "I hope you feel better soon, dear."

Mumbling something by way of reply, Sophia climbed the stairs to her room, then closed and locked the door behind her. It was a bitch and a pain to keep her cape identity from her family – Mom knew but nobody else did – but in this kind of situation it paid off in spades.

Opening her wardrobe, she reached in to the back and pulled out a removable partition. Behind that was her original costume, the one she had pieced together long before she was forced to join the Wards. Her old crossbows were here too; she had kept them clean and oiled, just on the off-chance that she would need them someday. Finally, she retrieved a small case; opening it, she counted six arrows, their tips gleaming razor-sharp.

Carefully, she donned the costume, fitting the crossbows into their holsters. The case of arrows went on to her belt. Closing the wardrobe, she frowned. Right now, she had the perfect alibi.

 _Hebert has to die. Nobody does that to me and lives._ But Hebert had some sort of bullshit luck thing going for her. _She's lucky, but I'm good. All the same, I might need more arrows. That's fine; I'll raid my stash._

* * *

" _Brockton Control, this is American 732. We're experiencing a pitch problem. Autopilot won't hold a constant altitude. Nose keeps creeping up, over."_

" _Ah, roger on the pitch problem, American 732. Are you declaring an in-flight emergency, over?"_

" _Negative, Brockton. But if you could pass that on to Portland, let 'em know that we're gonna need all the runway they can give us, over."_

" _Roger, American 732. We will be informing Portland that you are experiencing pitch problems. In the meantime, I see that you're in a higher altitude pattern than normal. Could the problem be caused by ice on your control surfaces, over?"_

" _That could be the problem, Brockton Control. We were assigned this altitude due to turbulence. What's the weather like down there, over?"_

" _American 732, we're having a nice warm winter's day. No turbulence to be seen. Turn to heading zero four zero and descend to Flight Level two zero zero, that's Foxtrot Lima two zero zero, see if that doesn't help with your problem, over."_

" _Roger that, Brockton. Turning to zero four zero and beginning descent to Flight Level two zero zero, over."_

" _I copy zero four zero and beginning descent to Flight Level two zero zero. Brockton Control out."_

* * *

 **Danny**

* * *

The tires protested as Danny fishtailed the car into the Winslow parking lot. He screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust; the car was still rocking on its suspension as he jumped out and frantically looked around.

Taylor wasn't there.

"Taylor!" he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Taylor, where are you?"

No answer, save his own voice echoing back from the school frontage.

 _She got tired of waiting, so she took the bus._

It wasn't the only explanation he could think of, but it was the only one he was willing to entertain right then. "Taylor!" he called again.

She still wasn't there.

Trotting up to the front steps, he climbed them and tried the main doors, on the faint hope that she was waiting inside. They were locked. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he put his face up to the glass. The hallway within was empty.

 _She took the bus and she'll be waiting at home for me._ He tried to convince himself of that as he headed back toward the car. It wasn't easy.

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

"So what's this all about, anyway?" I asked brightly.

Kaiser looked around at me. Even if I hadn't been told who he was, the metal armour covering every inch of his body would have been a serious clue. Hookwolf stood nearby, but he wasn't the only other cape there. I didn't know the others by sight, but I could make educated guesses.

The young woman with scars here and there on her arms and face, wearing a kind of metal cage around her head, might be Cricket. The PHO boards had no solid information about her powers.

Menja and Fenja were easier to pick out; blonde Valkyries wearing metal armour with closed-faced helmets. One carried a sword and shield, the other a spear. I had no idea which one was which, but I knew they could grow to three storeys tall and got tougher the bigger they were.

The last cape wore no shirt, but he did have a blue and white tiger mask, which made him Stormtiger. Apparently he had air powers, including the ability to slash at people with claws made of the stuff. Of Purity and Rune, just to name two, there was no sign. I was kind of glad of that; my powers might be cool and all but there were limits.

"As I said earlier, young lady, the less you know about the business at hand, the better for you." His tones were cultured, though I thought I detected a slight impatience in his voice.

"Well, hey," I pointed out. "You're the villain, I'm the hostage, you've got me in your secret lair. Why not indulge in a little gloating? Reveal your master plan to me. Come on, you know you want to."

"I would hardly call you a hostage," he retorted, a little more strain showing in his voice. "It's not as if I'm going to be demanding a ransom for you." He gestured around at the airy loft, with the members of the Empire Eighty-Eight sitting or standing around as they chose. "And this is not what I would call a secret lair." Outside, the sound of jackhammering arose as a road repair crew set to work once more. Stormtiger went over to the window and peered down at the street, then shook his head and stepped away again.

I waited till the noise ceased. "Well, you've got me tied to a chair," I said, entirely reasonably, pulling briefly at the ropes binding me. "That says 'hostage' to me, loud and clear. Which reminds me. What if I need to go to the bathroom? Are you gonna carry me there, chair and all? Because let me tell you, that ain't gonna work."

Hookwolf was apparently possessed of far less patience than his boss. "Shut up!" he yelled at me. "Just shut the fuck up, will you?"

I poked my tongue out at him. "You shut up, Hook _worm,"_ I retorted. "I was talking to your boss, not you." A couple of the Empire capes chuckled, but I was suddenly seeing the wolfs-head mask from really close up.

"Say that one more time, little girl," he grated. "Just once." Freshly grown razor claws rested on my cheek; I felt the sting of the very tips as they broke the skin.

"Hookwolf." It was Kaiser's voice, low and controlled. "Step back."

"But she just won't shut up!" Even as he protested, the tattooed villain moved away from me. "It's driving me nuts!"

I wasn't quite sure where I was getting it from either. Once upon a time, I had been quite the chatterbox. That was before Emma had turned on me, had gone from being my best friend to my own personal nemesis. Isolated and ostracised, tormented at every turn, I'd had nobody my age to talk to and precious little to talk about.

But now it was back. My powers had done more than make me lucky, it seemed; they had also reawakened that part of me, which I had long thought dead and gone.

 _God, I hope my powers are still working. If one of them goes to hurt me, I'll never be able to stop them._

Kaiser turned to Lee Adamson, who was sitting nearby with a mobile phone. "Try the house again. He's got to show up there sooner or later."

"Yes, sir." Lee pressed the dial button once more. I gave him a glare, which he carefully ignored.

* * *

 **Danny**

* * *

He wrenched open the door and stumbled inside. "Taylor?" he called out. "Taylor, are you home?"

Silence greeted him. It wasn't the silence of a house with someone asleep upstairs, but the silence of an empty house, one where nobody had been home since the morning.

"Taylor!" he called again, hopelessly. _Oh god, I screwed up. I let them take Taylor._

And then the phone rang. The sudden noise was shocking in the silence; he jumped and stared at it. Again it rang, and again.

Jolting himself into motion, he lurched forward and wrenched the receiver off of the cradle. "Hello?" he croaked. "Taylor? Is that you? Are you all right?"

" _Hello, Mr Hebert."_ The voice wasn't one that he recognised. _"Are you ready to talk business now?"_

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Where's my daughter?"

" _I'm the man who's got your daughter. That's all you need to know. She's safe and alive and well. Although a little bit mouthy."_

Danny took a deep breath. "Prove it." _Oh god, Taylor, please let your powers still be working._

There was a rustling sound, then Taylor's voice. _"Dad?"_

"Oh god, are you all right?"

She sounded positively chirpy over the phone. _"Yeah, I'm fine. They've all been kind of polite about it. Except Hookwolf. He's a bit of a douche."_

There was shouting in the background, then another rustling sound. "Taylor? Taylor, are you there?"

" _She's fine."_ The man's voice was a little more strained. _"I can't guarantee that she'll stay that way if she keeps mouthing off, though."_

"I _knew_ you were Empire Eighty-Eight," Danny accused him. "I'm guessing that I'm talking to Kaiser."

" _Very well, let us drop all pretence,"_ Kaiser agreed. _"This is indeed an Empire Eighty-Eight operation. I have your daughter. You will reinstate Mr Adamson on your workforce and cease querying his activities; in return, you will get Taylor back unharmed. As an added incentive, I'll make sure you get the five thousand, plus another five thousand each month."_

In the background, he heard Taylor's voice. _"Tell him to shove it, Dad!"_

 _If Taylor believes that her powers are still working, then I have to believe also._

"Kaiser." He kept his voice tightly under control. "I have a counter-offer. You release my daughter, right now, with apologies for the inconvenience, and we can both forget this ever happened. _Don't_ release her, and I can't answer for what's going to happen to you."

There was a long pause. _"Was that a threat? Are you honestly_ _ **threatening**_ _me?"_

"No. That was a warning. Unless you release my daughter _right now_ and back the fuck off from the Dockworkers, you seriously will not like the consequences."

* * *

American 732 reached the prescribed altitude of Flight Level two zero zero, otherwise known as twenty thousand feet, as it passed over the mountains that barricaded Brockton Bay to the south. As promised, the air was a little warmer here, and of turbulence there was little compared to the rain squalls further south.

However, as the aircraft passed into the warmer air, the airframe expanded very slightly. This, combined with the added warmth and the greater wind resistance, managed to break the tenuous hold that the mass of ice had on the fuselage.

Within the aircraft, the passengers felt a peculiar jolt, coupled to a thrumming boom as the ice broke away. A few startled looks were exchanged, but nothing else happened.

Checking the controls, the pilots found that the aircraft was no longer trying to climb skyward, a consequence of having mass shifted to a point behind the centre of gravity. Everything seemed to be operating within specs, so they made note of the strange noise and went back to the serious business of getting their passengers to Portland on time.

 _Below_ the aircraft, the mass of blue ice, reinforced and added to by high-altitude ice particles picked up on the flight, began a ballistic arc toward the ground, far below.

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

Kaiser took the phone away from his faceplate, which I could see now was perforated to allow him to speak properly. I couldn't see his expression, but his tone was one of disbelief. "The man thinks he can dictate terms to _me._ It's time we changed that attitude. Hookwolf."

"Yeah?" The tattooed man slouched to a species of attention.

Kaiser pointed at me. "Can you make her scream without doing too much permanent damage?"

As with Kaiser, I couldn't see Hookwolf's face, but the sadistic sneer was easy to hear in his voice. "With the greatest of fucking pleasure."

I watched as a blade, long and obviously very sharp, slid out of his forearm and ended up as a knife in his hand. He started toward me, Kaiser at his side.

"Now, Mr Hebert, listen very closely," Kaiser purred into the phone. "This is what happens when men like you overreach themselves."

"You don't want to do this," I stated, a little more boldly than I felt. "This is a really bad idea. _Trust_ me on this."

 _Come on, powers. Come on._ _ **Please**_ _come on …_

Behind me, Lee cleared his throat nervously. "Uh, hang on. You're not really gonna hurt her, are you?"

"Cricket." Kaiser didn't even break step. "Make sure that Mr Adamson doesn't interfere."

I tried to lock eyes with Hookwolf through his mask. "I'll say this one more time. This is a really bad idea for you."

"Oh yeah?" he sneered. "So what are you gonna do about it?"

* * *

"Kaiser!" yelled Danny into the phone. "Don't do this! I'm warning you!"

" _Nobody warns_ _ **me**_ _, Mr Hebert,"_ Kaiser replied. _"This is the -"_

And then, with a tremendous CRASH, his voice was cut off.

"Kaiser!" Danny shouted. "Taylor! What's happening?"

* * *

I had no idea what had actually happened until much later. All I heard was the tremendous CRASH as the roof caved in; something huge and blue blurred past me, taking Kaiser and Hookwolf with it as it punched through the floor and kept on going. Bits had broken off on impact with the roof – smaller ones, only the size of a human torso – and took on their own lethal trajectories within the loft area.

Hookwolf's knife had left his hand on impact; it travelled through the air in a brief arc, ending up point-down between the rope and the chair. The rope parted almost immediately and I moved my arms out to the side to free myself. As I did so, Kaiser's phone dropped into my hand.

Looking at where Hookwolf had gone, I raised an eyebrow. "Something like that, maybe?" I suggested facetiously, then lifted the phone to my ear.

* * *

" _Dad. It's me. I'm fine."_

"Oh, thank God." He felt his heart rate decreasing to merely insane levels. "What happened? Was it your powers?"

" _Basically, yeah,"_ she chuckled. _"Holy crap. You should have seen it. I don't even know where Kaiser and Hookwolf are. Cricket jumped out the window just before it happened. Menja and Fenja … I think they got punched out through the wall. In fact, there's just me and Mr Adamson here."_

"Adamson? _Lee_ Adamson?" Danny gripped the phone white-knuckled.

" _That's the one."_

"Give the phone to him, please."

" _Okay-doke."_

* * *

Lee was still staring wide-eyed at the gaping hole in the roof and the matching one in the floor. I turned to him. "It's for you," I told him, holding the phone out.

He took it gingerly, watching me as if I were going to explode or something. I considered shouting 'boo', but I didn't want him to drop the phone. "Uh, yes?" he ventured.

I tuned the conversation out as I strolled around the perimeter of the hole to where they'd dumped my backpack. Slinging it over my shoulder, I leaned over and peered out through the sizeable holes in the wall. Each of them marked the exit point of an Empire Eighty-Eight cape.

One of the Fenja-Menja pair had managed to go head-first down an open man-hole while she was still twenty feet tall; her legs stuck out of the round hole in the pavement, kicking wildly. Her sister was in the next man-hole along. I shook my head. _What are the odds …_

Smirking at the thought, I looked for Stormtiger, eventually finding him struggling to climb out of what looked like a pool of freshly-poured tar. The workmen were trying to shut off the flow, but through some mischance, the valve was stuck wide open, and more and more of the very hot tar was pouring around him by the second.

Shaking my head, I wandered back to where Lee was still talking on the phone. More accurately, he was sweating profusely while answering 'yes' and 'no' and 'yes sir' to whatever Dad was saying. He looked up as I approached and handed the phone back to me.

"Yeah, Dad?" I asked casually.

" _Mr Adamson has agreed to drive you home immediately,"_ he told me. _"Do you have any objection to this?"_

"None whatsoever," I agreed. "Though I've got to take a moment here."

" _Why?"_

I grinned wickedly as I started back toward the windows. "Photos."

* * *

As Lee and I exited the building, the roof fell in, then the entire building began the process of collapsing in upon itself. Lee stared at me, wide-eyed, then back at the slowly imploding structure.

"Lucky, huh?" I asked cheerfully. "Good thing we decided to go when we did."

"Did you … did you do that?" he blurted.

I rolled my eyes. "I warned him. You heard me warn him."

"Uh, yeah …" he mumbled. "But we didn't think you were serious."

I sighed. "People never do." Glancing down, I added, "Hold on."

My shoelace had come undone; bending over, I went to re-tie it, just as something whickered over my head. There was a _thunk,_ and I saw a throwing blade stuck in the brickwork just about chest height. "That wasn't there before," I remarked as I straightened up.

Looking the other way, I saw the origin of the blade. Cricket, minus her face-cage, looking somewhat battered and bruised, hobbling toward me. In her hand was another throwing blade. She drew back her hand to throw …

… and a bus came around the corner, attempted to brake, skidded on some bluish slush, and ploughed straight into her. The impact threw her thirty feet into the back of another bus; she flopped to the ground and stayed there.

I turned to Lee. "So, about that lift."

* * *

 **Shadow Stalker**

* * *

 _Gotta be quick about this. Get to Hebert's house, kill her, get home again. Tell 'em I was asleep the whole time. They'll never be able to prove otherwise._

Sophia eased her way on to the rooftop and skulked around beside the air-conditioning vent. The grille looked securely attached, but one of the screws holding it on turned easily and she was able to lift it off and away. Reaching in, she lifted out a backpack and placed it next to the aircon vent.

 _Arrows, arrows, arrows._

Reaching into the backpack, she rummaged through the contents. Spare mask, spare costume, first aid kit … where were the damn arrows?

Finally, losing patience, she dumped the pack out on the rooftop. The arrows were nowhere to be seen.

"The fuck?" she muttered. "I know I had some -"

The scrape of a boot on gravel caused her to whirl around, bringing both crossbows up in a practised move. Even when Armsmaster stepped into view, she didn't relax, though she did lower the crossbows.

"Oh, hi," she greeted him insincerely. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he replied grimly. "Were you looking for these?" He held up two of the arrows that she had been seeking, twin to the ones in the case on her belt.

"Uh, no," she replied, thinking quickly. "I had a spare phone in here. Or I thought I did." She made a show of peering at the arrows. "Those look like the ones I used to use, before I joined the Wards. I got rid of all those."

"Evidently not," he said. "These have your fingerprints on them, and the heads have microscopic traces of blood. Pretty sure we'll be able to match these with mysteriously injured muggers on nights you were out on patrol on your own."

"Uh, no," she began, tensing to turn and jump off the rooftop. "You've got it all wrong -"

A tremendous CRASH, not all that far away, startled her; she glanced in that direction. That moment of inattention was all it took; the next thing she knew, she was wrapped in a sturdy cable.

"I wouldn't try phasing," Armsmaster warned her bluntly. "The cable carries a charge."

And try as she might, Shadow Stalker could not think of a way out.

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

I climbed out of the car, then slung my backpack over my shoulder once more. Leaning back in through the open door, I gave Lee a tight smile. "You stood up for me with Kaiser," I told him. "That's the only reason you're still upright and breathing. But you helped kidnap me, which puts you on my list. Kaiser was on my list. You don't want to be there. I'd advise you to leave town."

"Leave town?" He gulped. "I'm leaving the friggin' _state."_

"Gooood idea." Standing up, I closed the door; from the way he burned rubber, it seemed as though he was intending to leave town today. This minute, even.

Which I was just fine with. Strolling up the front path, I noticed the car alongside the house. The front door opened as I approached; Dad stood there.

"Taylor," he breathed as I jumped over the rotten step and joined him. "You're all right."

"Yup," I grinned and held up the phone. "And trust me, you should see the other guys."

* * *

End of Part Six


	7. Chapter 7

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Seven: Mopping Up

* * *

 _[A/N: The PHO boards section is composed of entries adapted from real comments on real boards about this story. Usernames have also been adapted.]_

* * *

 **Emily**

* * *

 _Upon responding to the call, the strike team located a collapsed building, with four members of the Empire Eighty-Eight outside it. These were FENJA, MENJA, STORMTIGER and CRICKET. None of these were capable of resistance or escape, as they were all hampered or injured._

 _FENJA and MENJA were found trapped upside-down in manholes. Both of them were unable to get free, as the shin-guards on their armour had hooked identically on the rims of said manholes, in such a way that it was impossible for them to escape on their own. They were assisted out of their predicament and taken into custody._

 _STORMTIGER was found covered in tar due to an unfortunate encounter with a road repair crew and a faulty valve on a tank of boiling tar. He was taken into custody and given what medical attention was possible at the time; Corpsman O'Reilly estimated that he has sustained second and third degree burns over most of his body, as well as several suspected broken bones. More will be known once the tar is removed._

* * *

Emily stopped reading briefly to allow herself a shudder. _Boiling tar. Good god._ Picking up where she left off, she resumed reading.

* * *

 _CRICKET was unconscious when we arrived; according to O'Reilly, she has suffered multiple instances of massive blunt force trauma that left both arms, both legs, all of her ribs, her pelvis and a few other bones broken in several places. He also suspects internal injuries. Witnesses reported that she was struck by a bus and thrown into another bus. She was taken into custody and given what medical assistance was possible._

 _Witness statements all agreed that the Empire capes had been thrown from the collapsed building at the same time as an explosion or impact on the building itself, and very shortly before the collapse. FENJA and MENJA maintained that two more capes, KAISER and HOOKWOLF, were still unaccounted for. With the assistance of the road repair crew, the building was investigated and the cause of the collapse determined; a mass of blue ice composed of water, disinfectant and human excrement. It had broken up on impact, but the original impactor had to weigh at least one ton._

* * *

Emily stopped reading again. _Blue ice. Christ._ She'd heard stories about chunks of blue ice falling off of airliners, but nothing over a hundred pounds. _A ton ... how is that even_ _ **possible?**_ _And so precisely targeted …_ A pause, as she thought about that. _Targeted. Strange and unusual circumstances. Wait a_ _ **minute**_ _…_

She took a moment to scribble _Taylor Hebert?_ in the margin of the report, then kept reading.

* * *

 _Digging down through the rubble, we reached the basement area. There we discovered KAISER and HOOKWOLF. They were both alive, although KAISER apparently has many broken bones and HOOKWOLF seems to have encased himself in a metal shell and is not responding to outside stimuli._

 _Witness statements mentioned seeing two people leaving the building just before it collapsed, a male and a female, both Caucasian. The man was in his twenties, of average height and solid build, with either red, brown or dark blond hair. The woman was skinny and either a tall teenager or twenty-something and petite. She did not seem to be under duress. She wore glasses, had long dark curly hair and carried a backpack over her shoulder. They got in a car and drove away; nobody could recall the make, model or license plate of the vehicle._

 _A throwing blade was discovered embedded in a wall nearby, provisionally assumed to have belonged to Cricket, given that she has been known to use them in the past …_

* * *

Emily slapped her hand on the desk and re-read the description. _Tall teenager … glasses … long dark curly hair._ Putting the report on the desk, she gazed into space. _It has to be her. There's no other explanation for it. A precision strike on the Empire Eighty-Eight with highly improbable and coincidental results._ "I bet Cricket threw that blade at the Hebert girl just before something happened that broke all her bones," she muttered. "I would put _money_ on it."

Picking up the phone, she pressed a few buttons. "This is the Director," she said. "I need you to determine what aircraft were overflying Brockton Bay at precisely …" She checked the report. " … fifteen twenty-five this afternoon. Special attention to large aircraft, such as airliners. Contact the airlines in question and find out all details of said flights, if anything at all unusual happened in conjunction with those flights. Get that report to me soonest. That is all."

Putting the phone down, she steepled her fingers and stared over them at the door. _I wonder what Kaiser did to require a ton of ice to land on him from a great height. Strike that; a ton of frozen human excrement._ Involuntarily, she shuddered. _I'm not even sure that I want to know_ _ **how**_ _she arranged that._

Her phone rang; she glanced at it in surprise. For just a moment, she imagined that it was the Operations officer ringing back with the report she had requested, then she shook her head. Picking up the receiver, she cleared her throat. "Director Piggot."

" _Ma'am, are you looking at the PHO boards?"_ It was Triumph, sounding a little strained. There were odd noises in the background, which she couldn't quite make out.

"I have better things than to look at the ParaHuman Online boards all day," she replied severely. "As do you."

" _Yes, ma'am, I totally agree. But you need to look at them now. Check the recent posts. There's something there that you really do need to see."_

Such was the tone of his voice that she did not question him. "Very well," she agreed. Without putting the phone down, she moved the mouse to wake up the computer and clicked on the required tab. Then she clicked on to the Recent Posts list and started scrolling down. Her eyes widened after a moment, and she clicked on an icon.

"Oh my god," she muttered. "Is that …"

" _That's what it looks like, ma'am,"_ agreed Triumph. Again, the strange sounds occurred in the background. She finally identified them; it was the sound of several people laughing uproariously.

"Thank you, Triumph," she managed. "That will be all." Putting down the phone, she turned her full attention to the photos that had been posted to the site. Without a doubt, they were of the scene described in the report. Pictures, she discovered, were indeed worth a thousand words.

"Oh my god," she said once more. "She got _photos."_

 _Shadow Stalker,_ she decided, _got off lightly._

* * *

"Seriously, wow, I don't believe it." Kid Win leaned back in the chair he had been using for monitor duty, holding his ribs.

"Guys, we should be treating this more seriously," Triumph told them sternly, putting the phone down. "They could've been hurt or killed. Stormtiger's got third degree burns there, for a certainty."

"So what?" asked Aegis, still chuckling. "They're a bunch of racist pricks. Any one of them would do their best to kick my head in if they got a chance, because of my skin colour. Pretty sure that whatever did that to them, they deserved it."

Triumph shook his head. "Missy, back me up here." He looked around. "Missy?"

The youngest member of the Wards was lying on the floor in a foetal position, arms around her knees, giggling hysterically. As Triumph moved toward her, she gasped out, "Head … first … down … manhole …" then went back to giggling.

"Clockblocker?" Triumph's voice was resigned; it was the redhead who had told them what the blue ice really was. But he had to try to appeal to their better nature.

Minus his helmet, Dennis was lying on his back on the floor, not far from Missy. He was cackling loudly, rolling from side to side. "They got shat on from a great height!" he managed, then went back to his mirth.

"And Kaiser's under it," added Missy, in between giggles.

Still laughing himself, Kid Win began to scroll through the comments that had begun to appear beneath the initial post. Some of them he read out loud, as best he could. This did not help anyone stop laughing.

* * *

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 **Topic: Empire Eighty-Eight - FAIL!  
In: Boards ► Brockton Bay ► Cape Doings ► Villains ► E88**

 **CleverGirl95** (Original Poster)  
Posted on January 12, 2011:

So the Empire Eighty-Eight decided to kidnap me to put pressure on my dad to do them a favor. Not saying I'm a cape, and not saying I'm not, but this is what happened. Just saying. [link]  
P/S: Kaiser and Hookwolf are *under* that.

 **(Showing Page 2 of 31)**

 **Walpurgis  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

Okay, that's so very satisfying, right there.

 **SenpaiSan  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

You're not wrong. I like this. I like this a lot.

 **Bookworm419  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

Blue ice ... wow. I thought they'd fixed that particular problem.

 **ElectricPenguin** (Moderator)  
Replied on January 12, 2011:

Heh heh heh. Hookwolf and Kaiser both?  
OP's dad must be someone pretty important.

 **Imitator  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

Okay, if this is a power, I wonder if something similar but more powerful could be pulled on an Endbringer. Like a meteor strike or something.

 **Glitcher  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

So a plane full of people suffering from gastric distress just happened to fly overhead at just the right time? And Kaiser and Hookwolf got shat on from a great height? Mwahaha.

 **Zarb  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

If this is a power, it's awesome. And kind of scary. But mainly awesome.

 **Vier  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

Ow, my sides. Laughing too hard.

 **DarkHawk  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

Are there more pictures? Please tell me there are.

 **lostallhope  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

This is awesomely hilarious. Only in Brockton Bay.

 **AnAesopMoment  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

So, the Empire Eighty-Eight just got taken out by an icy BM? Priceless.

 **CleverGirl95** (Original Poster)  
Replied on January 12, 2011:

Being kidnapped and driven to a secret base: $2.00 worth of fuel.  
Phone call to my dad for the demands: 48 cents.  
Watching an airborne poopsicle the size of a Buick take out the Empire Eighty-Eight and demolish their headquarters: PRICELESS.

 **Counter_Guard  
** Replied on January 12, 2011:

Five minutes, still laughing. Too funny.

 **End of Page.** **1** **, 2,** **3** **,** **4** **...** **29** **,** **30** **,** **31**

* * *

 **Emily  
Later that Night**

* * *

She looked around the table at those seated there. A few were in the loop already, and their worried expressions mirrored her inner feelings. Others were not; they merely looked puzzled. This would change.

Taking a deep breath, she began to speak. "Some of you may be wondering why you were called here. It's very simple. There's a new parahuman in Brockton Bay."

The senior PRT officers, seated down one side of the table, didn't change expression. New parahumans, after all, showed up in Brockton Bay with almost monotonous regularity.

Major Holden cleared his throat. "Ma'am, that's nothing really new. Or is this parahuman something special?" _They had better be,_ he didn't have to say.

"Allow me to clarify," Emily said. "There's a new parahuman in Brockton Bay, and she's perhaps scarier than any I've encountered yet." A pause, as she let them absorb that. "And yes, I _am_ including Nilbog in that total."

 _That_ got their attention. Nilbog, one of the few Class S parahumans allowed to exist unmolested on American soil, was walled about and kept under constant guard by the PRT in what was once the town of Ellisburg; he and his creations had been in that situation for the last ten years. The Director, as everyone had to know, was one of the two soldiers who had faced Nilbog and survived to tell of the experience.

"What the hell -" That was Holden.

"You can't be serious -" Another PRT officer.

"Scarier than Nilbog -" She thought that might be Assault.

"We've heard nothing -" That was possibly Velocity.

"Quiet!" Armsmaster had risen to his feet. "Let the Director finish!" He banged the haft of his halberd on the floor for emphasis.

The babbling died off and people sat back in their chairs, looking a little sheepish. Armsmaster sat down once more and nodded at Piggot. "Director?"

"Thank you," she replied. Picking up the remote that sat before her, she clicked a button. The projector mounted in the ceiling hummed to itself, and a picture of Taylor Hebert sprang to life on the far wall. It had been lifted from security footage of the day before, when Taylor and her father had visited the PRT headquarters. She was smiling at something, her eyes alight with amusement behind her glasses.

"Take a good look," Emily ordered them. "Commit that face to memory. Her name is Taylor Hebert. Remember that too. Do not write it down. You will not be getting a copy of that picture. I don't want the face or name getting out to anyone."

Major Holden turned back to look at her. "But why?" he asked. "Okay, she's a parahuman. I get that we don't out her, but why shouldn't we let our people know that she is one?"

Emily fixed him with a hard stare. "Because she's the _scariest_ parahuman I've ever met, or perhaps you didn't hear me before." She clicked the remote again. "Ten days ago, she was shut in her locker and presumably underwent her trigger event. Since then, there have been several attempts to continue what seems to have been an ongoing bullying campaign. This is what happened to the bullies."

Silence fell as the pictures flicked up on the screen. A red-haired girl, stuck vertically, upside-down, beside a toilet. A brunette, wedged butt-first into another toilet, with a container of chocolate pudding upside down on her head. Chuckles began to arise from her audience.

"Think that's funny?" asked Emily caustically. "How about this?" She clicked the remote again.

"Holy crap," Assault commented as he studied the picture. He turned his head to one side, as almost everyone else was also doing, his expression becoming a frown. "How did they even …"

"Running with duct tape, chasing the Hebert girl," Emily said. "One tripped, the rest followed, and somehow …"

"Wait." That was Battery. "That girl looks familiar."

"She should." Armsmaster spoke up. "That's Shadow Stalker. She was in on the bullying from the beginning. In fact, we suspect that she was the driving force behind it. She then went to the Director to attempt to slander Miss Hebert."

Everyone turned to look at Emily; Triumph, at the end of the table, breathed out a sigh of sudden comprehension. "Wait. The thing with Aegis?"

"Exactly," Emily agreed. "Aegis accidentally put her through a wall before she could communicate her view of things to me."

"So how did you get a picture of her?" asked Assault.

The Director smiled tightly. "Miss Hebert herself came to see me, with her father. It was a very … _illuminating_ … conversation."

Major Holden cleared his throat. "Uh, Director … a few minor incidents doesn't make her as scary as you say. Unless there's more?"

"Yes, there's more." She clicked the remote. More pictures showed up. The PRT men blinked.

Holden turned back to her, his eyes wide. "Wait, she was _there?"_

"She was indeed there," Emily confirmed. "Apparently they kidnapped her. But about fourteen hours _before_ they kidnapped her, there was a power spike at a food storage facility in Miami. The spoiled food was supplied as airline meals to passengers on a plane that overflew Brockton Bay. They … shall we say, filled up the toilet tanks. These leaked – apparently, this has been an ongoing problem that hasn't _quite_ been bad enough to get fixed, until now – and formed a mass of ice on the underside of the plane, roughly one point two tons in weight. When it passed over Brockton Bay, it fell off. With, as it happens, pinpoint accuracy."

Assault spoke next, trying to keep some strong emotion out of his voice. "One … point … two … _tons?"_

"That's the number our analysts gave me," the Director confirmed.

"Fourteen … _hours?"_ That was Major Holden.

"If you two are going to keep repeating everything I say, we're going to be here all night," Emily replied caustically. _"Yes,_ one point two tons. _Yes,_ that's an order of magnitude larger than any other chunk of blue ice that's ever been recorded. _Yes,_ these events were put in motion more than half a day before she was ever put under threat. And yes, there's a very good chance that she was asleep for some of the time that her power was setting up the situation."

She looked at each person there in turn, her stare unflinching. "According to her, and I have no reason to disbelieve her, she has no conscious control over her powers. If her power sees someone as an enemy, _that_ is what happens to them. So far it's been non-lethal, albeit extremely humiliating. I have no reason to believe that it will stay that way, especially if someone comes after her with lethal force."

Assault chuckled. "Not sure if Kaiser wouldn't prefer death. After all, he just got publicly sh- oof!"

Battery elbowed him in the ribs and he broke off with a gasp. "Shut up," she hissed. "Not here, not now."

"Precisely," the Director agreed. "There's a time and a place for jokes of that caliber. Here and now is not it." She drew a deep breath. "I am assigning her the provisional codename Butterfly. This will be in force until I have a chance to ask her if she would like a different one. What _you_ will be doing about her is … nothing."

"Nothing?" Major Holden had a hard time controlling his tone. "You've just demonstrated exactly how dangerous she is! A threat assessment -"

" _Will not be made."_ Emily put all the steel into her voice that she could. It was sufficient; Holden wilted back into his seat. "Making a threat assessment requires that we think of her as a threat. And then we start thinking of how we could deal with said threat. We build a model of how we could potentially defeat her." She held Holden's gaze as she lowered her voice almost to a whisper. "Do _you_ want to be the one her power decides is her enemy in that case?"

"Shit." Assault leaned back in his chair, his voice filled with realisation. "We can't even think about how we might beat her. Because if we do, we have to assume that her power started planning how to beat us _yesterday._ Holy shit. You said she's scary." A broad grin spread across his face. "I think that's all kinds of _awesome."_

"This is no time for jokes," Armsmaster chided him.

"I'm not joking," Assault insisted. "Seriously, I'm not. If people don't screw with her, they're fine. If they do, they end up duct-taped to a bunch of guys or stuck in a toilet or getting a ton of blue ice in the back of the neck. Oh _man."_ Turning to Emily, he put on a beseeching tone of voice. "Can I please please _please_ have the assignment of following her around with a video camera? And can I get an advance on my pay? I'm gonna be buying a lot of popcorn."

"No and no." The Director's voice was firm. "Nobody will be following her around for any reason. We still don't know exactly what triggers her power to think someone's an enemy. The only person who's going to have contact with her is me."

Most of Armsmaster's face was covered by his helmet, but he still managed to look startled. "Ma'am?"

"Yes." Piggot put both hands flat on the table. "I intend to go around to her house and ask, very politely, if I can buy Kaiser's phone from her." She nodded curtly. "In the meantime, you have your orders. Butterfly is strictly hands off. You don't make threat assessments, you don't assign threat ratings -"

"Uh, already done," Assault interrupted. "Shaker: _nope."_

A few of the PRT officers chuckled; Battery tried to hide her smirk, even as she elbowed him again. "Seriously?" she whispered.

"That's as good an assessment as any," Emily allowed begrudgingly. "But no following her, video camera or otherwise. That's an order." She rose to her feet. "Dismissed."

One by one, they filed from the room. The picture of Taylor Hebert was once more being projected on the wall, and they paused to look at it before leaving. The last PRT officer to go paused longer than most, then turned to leave.

 _Well, well, well,_ thought Thomas Calvert. _How very interesting._

* * *

End of Part Seven


	8. Chapter 8

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Eight: Double Trouble

* * *

"I want no distractions for at least the next five hours." Coil's voice was firm. "Is that totally understood?"

The mercenary captains nodded. "Understood, sir," one of them replied. "What circumstances will warrant us contacting you?"

"Only something that threatens this base," Coil said. "Anything less can wait."

"Roger that, sir." The mercenaries trooped out. Coil shut the door behind them, then sat down in his office chair. It had been custom built to accommodate his height, allowing him to lean back and enjoy the comfortable padding.

Moving the mouse on his computer, he clicked the unobtrusive icon that locked the door. Now it would take heavy equipment – or high explosive – to get through it. They could contact him from outside, and he could always call out, but nothing could physically reach him unless and until he willed it.

 _I have to be very careful about this._

From the start, he had been intrigued by the possibilities of Butterfly's power. Director Piggot had been annoyingly imprecise about its exact limitations and parameters but then, he supposed that she hadn't spent any time figuring them out. He suspected that she hated capes so much that she didn't actually stop to think about how to better make use of their powers.

 _If she had her way, all capes would lose their powers tomorrow._

To him, that was amazingly short-sighted. Powers existed for a variety of reasons. The best reason, of course, was 'to further the aims of Thomas Calvert'. With his power, he could improve the utility of virtually any other power by at least a factor of two, by giving any cape a second chance at whatever they were trying to do. Of course, that cape would have to be working for him at the time; what would the point be, otherwise?

Inserting a thumb drive, he called up what little information he had gleaned on Taylor Hebert, and began digging through publicly accessible files for more. Where she lived, what school she went to, family situation, and so forth.

Once he had all the information he could get about her, then he could begin planning on how to best make use of her power. For his benefit, of course. There would be no real point, otherwise.

* * *

The rain system which had disrupted the smooth running of American 732 had been moving north. As it did, New York got intermittent showers, Boston had its gutters cleaned out and Brockton Bay began to undergo the first of several days of torrential downpour. Fortunately, being Brockton Bay, it wasn't totally freezing.

At first, all went well. The stormwater drains initially handled the load while the freshwater reservoirs filled to capacity. But the rain kept falling. Captain's Hill and the surrounding high ground captured water and directed it downhill, into Brockton Bay. This also went into the stormwater system, which began to find itself a little overwhelmed. Just about the time that the first minor flooding began to be reported – a few streets had up to a foot of water on them – the storm intensified and there were a few lightning strikes. But then it settled down, and the rainfall lessened slightly.

* * *

Coil looked around as the lights flickered off and on again. He waited; the flicker did not happen again. Opening a new page, he checked the local weather bureau and discovered for the first time that it had been raining for the past four hours.

Although his base was well below the local water table – anything below cellar depth threatened to reach the water table – he had ensured that it would take a great deal of flooding to reach any of the access points. Lightning shouldn't be a problem either, given that he had surge protectors in place. His computer might pick up a minor spike with a big enough lightning strike, but that was a hazard with any computer, anywhere. In any case, all of his files were backed up in secure storage.

He went back to work, carefully planning out a series of stimuli with which to apply to Butterfly and test out the limits and reactivity of her power. After all, this was not someone he could simply have grabbed off the street; that would be the absolute height of stupidity. The Empire Eighty-Eight had amply demonstrated that. He would have to be more subtle about it.

In the meantime, let it rain. It wasn't his problem.

* * *

The section of the stormwater system under the building where Taylor had been taken by the Empire Eighty-Eight was not so very near Coil's elaborate underground base, but it wasn't so very far off it, either. More to the point, the impact of one point two tons of blue ice had damaged the drain that ran under the building. After a few hours of being filled to capacity, the rushing of the water through the concrete conduit loosened a slab which promptly fell into the flow, blocking a good deal of it. Water backed up, hard.

An interesting fact about water is that it is almost totally incompressible. This is why an underwater explosion will kill fish and people alike; the shockwave is not absorbed by the water itself. That particular fact gives rise to the phenomenon called 'water hammer', which is why a rattle of water in the plumbing can actually cause pipes to burst if not treated carefully.

Some of the water gushed up into the ruins of the building from which Hookwolf and Kaiser had been rescued not so long ago. Manhole covers also popped off as water forced its way upward to relieve the pressure. But this was a minor part of it. Most of the water pressure went another way, down a spur line. Which led, as matters would have it, directly toward a large underground base which the city planners had no idea was there.

In building the base, Thomas Calvert's construction engineers had had to reroute several sewer lines and storm drains; it would have been astonishing if they did not. But in this particular instance, a stormwater line had been altered so that it turned almost ninety degrees and also reduced somewhat in diameter. It hadn't been seen as a problem at the time; it was on a spur line, while a much higher capacity storm drain was able to reroute flow safely past the base.

Or it would have been, if a concrete slab hadn't inconveniently blocked it.

Even then, disaster did not strike immediately. The fast-moving water hit the turn with the force of a thousand high-pressure fire hoses every second, eroding away at the concrete. It was tough material; it could take a lot. But it could not hold out indefinitely. And just a few yards away were the lower sections of Coil's base.

If the rain kept up, if the water kept flowing, the consequences could be … interesting.

* * *

That night, the rain continued to fall. Thomas Calvert, in his base, gave orders for all of his other operations to be put on standby; he didn't want anything to go awry if he had to unexpectedly abort a timeline. Double-checking to ensure that his directives had been followed, he split the timelines.

In one timeline, he stayed in the base, monitoring events in and around the city. He was a man who believed that one could never be too careful.

In the other timeline, he went home, ate a light meal while watching TV, then went to bed early.

* * *

 **Timeline A**

* * *

Morning dawned, although the residents of Brockton Bay would have been hard put to notice it. The rain had only eased slightly overnight, and seemed to be invigorated with the coming of the new day. He drank his sixth cup of coffee as he continued to keep an eye on what was happening around Brockton Bay. His endeavours had not been overly hampered by the slowdown; everyone was staying indoors, due to the rain.

* * *

 **Timeline B**

* * *

Thomas Calvert rose bright and early, as was his habit. He ate a filling breakfast, then drove into the city. Parking in the underground carpark, he reported in for duty. Nothing was scheduled for his strike squad today, so he decided to catch up on the never-ending paperwork.

He was unaware that a flaw had developed with the air-conditioning and drainage systems in the PRT building overnight. Water running off the flat roof was supposed to be directed into downpipes and thus flushed into the stormwater drains. However, a tiny seam had split, and all night, water had been dripping into the interior spaces of the building, finding its way down between the walls and through openings between the floors, to pool on top of a particular ceiling tile in a particular office.

Due to the humidity, the air-conditioning had been hard put to remove all the moisture from the air. This water was also dripping into the interior spaces. By a staggering coincidence, it was collecting in the same place as the water from the leak was. Nobody had yet noticed that the ceiling tile in question was starting to develop a distinct bow. Amazingly enough, it had not yet begun to leak through.

* * *

 **Timeline A**

* * *

Calling up the Butterfly file, Coil noted the first point to deal with.

 _Find out if her effect extends to others._

If, for instance, her luckiness did not protect her father, then there would be little reason to ingratiate himself with her. She would still be a potential stumbling-block to his plans, so a scholarship to one of Boston's more prestigious schools – it wasn't as if she had many ties in Brockton Bay any more – might be the way to go.

Overhead, although he didn't hear it, the storm intensified. The lights flickered again, then settled down. Another power spike tested his surge protector. For the most part, the electrical surge was absorbed. But just enough got through to play a very specific type of havoc with his computer. Among other things, the links to sensors in the very bottom levels of his base were cut.

* * *

 **Timeline B**

* * *

Thunder rolled; Thomas Calvert heard it clearly. He didn't know it, but in his base, in his office, where he was _not,_ his computer had just woken up in response to a power surge. Almost of its own accord, it began to set up a connection, to the last system that he had been connected to. This happened to be the PRT building, where he had been accessing privileged information from the servers.

Picking up his phone, he sent an innocuous text message. The man who received it had gotten strict orders the night before. _Danny Hebert is to be roughed up, but not killed. No permanent damage._ The content of the text was irrelevant; the fact that it began with one letter of the alphabet and not another meant _Go_ rather than _Abort Mission._

Danny Hebert shrugged into the rain poncho. "Just going out to walk the rounds," he told his secretary. Not much was going to get done in rain like this, but he liked to make sure that nothing untoward was going on anyway. Too much equipment disappeared at times like this.

Stepping out into the rain was like walking head-first into a vertical ocean with slots in it. It wasn't just pouring; it was _hammering_ down. Within two paces, his glasses had fogged over. He took them off and put them away; it wasn't as if he was going to be inspecting anything closely anyway.

His route took him along the side of the docks; he looked over the ships and the equipment as best he could. The rain hampered his vision as much as his lack of glasses, but he did his best anyway.

He was peering under a shading hand at one particular crane when a dark figure approached him stealthily from behind. The man could have been dancing the macarena and waving lit firecrackers and Danny still would not have seen or heard him, but he approached stealthily anyway. In his hand was a short length of pipe; he considered a broken collarbone to be non-permanent.

The man was just three feet behind Danny, arm raised to deliver a carefully calculated blow, when lightning struck the crane that Danny was examining. The current had plenty of water and metal to conduct it, but one minor tendril of electricity still managed to arc out, miss Danny by mere feet, and ground through the pipe into the would-be attacker.

Fortunately for the man, the current was attenuated by all the water, but the shock still knocked him off his feet and over the side of the dock. Danny didn't even hear the cry of alarm and pain, let alone the splash, given that a lightning strike had just occurred within yards of him.

* * *

Louise looked up as Danny staggered back into the office. "Are you all right?" she asked. "I just heard the most godawful crack of thunder."

"What?" Danny replied, loudly and nasally, holding his hand up to his ear. "Sorry, I nearly just got struck by lightning. My feet are still tingling, and I can't hear a thing." He pointed at his office. "I'll be in there if you need me."

* * *

As Thomas Calvert awaited the report on the assault on Danny Hebert, he saw a very dim flash of light through the heavy rain, in the general direction of the Docks. He never heard the thunder, for at that very moment, the ceiling tile above his head gave way under the weight of water. He was deluged from head to toe; part of it sluiced into his computer, which gave up the ghost in a crackle of sparks. This arced out and knocked him off his chair, leaving him flat on his back, wondering what had hit him. It was only when he went to get up that he found that there was something seriously wrong with his right arm; any time he tried to move it, there was a stabbing pain from the shoulder, radiating in all directions.

* * *

 **Timeline A**

* * *

 _Wait, what the hell just happened?_

Coil leaned back on his chair and considered the ramifications of what had just occurred in the other timeline. Help had arrived in response to his strangled cries for assistance; his other self was being half-carried to the infirmary.

 _Either that was a most spectacular piece of bad luck right on cue, or that was Butterfly's power rebounding on me, even though I wasn't the one about to harm her father._

 _Piggot didn't mention this._ He gritted his teeth. _And I can't even complain about that, because I'm not supposed to be interacting with the girl._

Leaning forward to the keyboard, he started typing. _**Initial testing indicates that Butterfly's power will seek out those who initiate hostile action against her, even at a remove. The results of the attempt to cause minor harm to Danny Hebert are as yet unknown, but I suspect that it will be unsuccessful, and that the attacker will have suffered a mishap of unknown magnitude.**_

 _ **Further tests will have to be carried out with th**_

There was a frantic pounding on the door; he looked up with irritation. Moving the mouse, he brought up the base security feeds. One and all, they refused to load.

A frown creased his brow. _That's not right._

Clicking on another icon brought up a speaker symbol; he picked up the microphone from his desk and spoke clearly, "Identify yourself. Who is this?"

There was no response, not even a crackle on the line.

The pounding continued as he got up. Lifting his pistol belt from the back of the chair, he buckled it on then drew the pistol. Carefully, he tapped in the code to open the door. Nothing happened.

 _That's really not right._

More carefully, he tapped in the code again. The lack of result repeated itself.

Doing his best to ignore the chill that was running up and down his spine, he opened a panel beside the door and engaged a manual crank, proceeding to unlock and wind the door open with muscle power. _There's no such thing as being too cautious._

Gradually, the door cranked open. Coil recognised his head of security, face wearing an expression of extreme agitation. He kept cranking. "What's the matter?"

"Sir, we have a bad problem."

 _Shit. Shit shit shit._ "What is it?"

"The base is filling with water, sir."

"What?" But even as he asked the question, he could hear the sound, in the background, of swirling water. This was a noise that he never wanted to hear inside an underground facility.

"How?" he grunted, continuing to crank.

"Not one hundred percent sure, sir. There's a hole in one of the lower level rooms, with a lot of water coming through at high pressure. If I had to guess, I'd say a stormwater line has ruptured, and burst through the wall of the base."

"What's the rate of rise?" He nearly had the door open by now.

"About a foot every two minutes."

He stopped cranking. "Say that again."

"About a foot every two minutes, sir," the security chief repeated. "The lower level is about half-full."

"Christ." He stopped cranking, dashed back to the computer. A click brought him over to the sensors that were supposed to detect excess dampness in the lower level of the base. Nothing was coming back from them. Then he called up the command menu for the drainage pumps that he'd had installed. A click of the mouse sent the signal for them all to start pumping. On the screen, a row of green dots popped up, indicating that pumping had begun.

He'd only just begun to relax when the 'all stop' command popped up on the screen. One by one, each pump flicked from green to red. Frantically, he clicked the 'all start' command once more. They all started then, about ten seconds later, the 'all stop' command repeated itself.

He began to swear; three more times he sent the 'all start' command, only for the pumps to turn themselves off at the spurious 'all stop' command once more. On the fourth time around, he didn't click anything; sure enough, every eleven seconds, the 'all stop' command popped up anyway.

Stepping over to the door, he finished cranking it open and stepped outside. Looking over the catwalk rail, he saw the water, roiling with the force of the stream pushing it into the base.

 _Good thing I hadn't dropped the other timeline quite yet. But there's still stuff I can try._

Dashing back to his room, he hit the power button on his computer. _Maybe if I reboot the system, the pumps will also reset themselves and get rid of that recurring command._

It seemed to take forever for his computer to restart. After a minute, he started fidgeting. After two, he lost patience and hit the power button to manually restart.

Absolutely nothing happened. Not even the power light came on.

 _God dammit._ He squeezed out through the door and went to the rail. The water was noticeably higher. _The money I spent on this fucking place._

A thought struck him. _I wonder …_

* * *

 **Timeline B**

* * *

Thomas Calvert stirred and groaned.

"Hold still, sir," the medic warned him. "I'm just setting your collarbone. You've got a nasty break. The edge of that roof tile hit you just so."

"Phone," he mumbled, head made fuzzy by the local anaesthetic. "Need my phone."

"Sorry," the orderly standing by reported cheerfully. "It got totalled."

"Borrow yours," Calvert told him groggily.

The orderly looked at the medic, who shrugged. Calvert read the look as _if it'll shut him up, sure._ Whatever the orderly read it as, he also shrugged and dug out a battered smartphone. Entering the PIN code, he handed it over.

Clumsily, Calvert entered the number one-handed; twice he slipped up and had to go back. But finally, he had the number dialled in. Holding it to his ear, he waited as it rang.

" _Who is this?"_ demanded the watch operator in his base. _"How did you get this number?"_

"It's me," Calvert stated. "Sigma three Alpha zero."

There was a pause as the operator checked the code book. 'Sigma three' meant 'commander/lost normal means of communication' and 'Alpha zero' meant 'hurt/safe'.

" _Right, sir. Got it. How can I help you?"_

"Status report," mumbled Calvert. "Complete status. Any problems?" _Is the base flooding?_

" _Status nominal, sir. No problems."_

"Please repeat. I copy you as saying 'no problems'."

" _That is correct, sir. I have the head of security with me now. He concurs."_

"Understood." Calvert fumbled with the phone until the number had been wiped from memory, then handed it back to the orderly. "Thanks."

"No problem, sir."

Calvert let himself relax as much as he could. _The base is flooding in the other timeline but not this one. I have a broken collarbone in this timeline but not in that one. This is also the timeline where I tried to have Butterfly's father harmed._

* * *

 **Timeline A**

* * *

The water was lapping at the catwalk and showing no sign of slowing its rate of rise when he came to the conclusion. _My collarbone will heal a damn sight faster than trying to rebuild this base. And in the meantime, I've learned my lesson. I don't try to affect Butterfly by harming her father._

He dropped the timeline.

* * *

When Deputy Director Renick tapped on the door to Emily Piggot's office, he heard murmured voices inside, then her raised voice. "Come in."

Opening the door, he looked into the office to see one of the techs from Analysis sitting half-behind Piggot's desk on one of the guest chairs, open laptop balanced awkwardly on the corner of the desk. He was tapping away intermittently at the keyboard.

"Oh, Renick," Piggot greeted him almost cheerfully. "Come on in. You might want to see this."

Curiously, he came all the way in, closing the door behind him. The tech – an acne-scarred twenty-something with zero social skills and more computer science doctorates than Renick had imagined possible – barely glanced up as Renick rounded the desk.

"What am I looking at?" he asked, glancing from the tech's laptop to Piggot's computer screen.

"Over here," the Director said, gesturing at her screen. On it, a wireframe diagram was displayed; she tapped a key and it rotated to a new alignment.

"What is it?" he asked.

"An underground supervillain base, if you can believe it," she informed him with some satisfaction. "Right here in Brockton Bay."

He took a long moment to assimilate that. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"Not in the slightest. We only stumbled across it through the weirdest kind of luck. Their computer system started trying to handshake with ours. A prompt actually popped up on my screen. At first I thought it was some sort of virus, so I had Johannsen here run some tests. He said it was a genuine contact, so I had him trace it back and start digging through their files. We've got base plans, mercenary payment information, body armour, details on Tinkertech weaponry. Everything except the name of the villain, and I'm pretty sure we can make an educated guess on that."

"Coil," Renick agreed immediately. "No-one else hires mercenaries, and we're pretty sure that he does."

"Exactly." The Director seemed to be almost bubbling over with secret amusement. "And what's more, I think I know why this fell into our laps."

"Okay, you've got me there."

Emily stretched her arms out before her, fingers interlaced. "Tell me, who's been causing a series of unfortunate events around town for people trying to mess with her?"

It only took Renick a moment or so to connect the dots. "Coil's been trying to do something, and her power has objected?"

"That's my guess." Now Renick could understand her amusement and satisfaction. _"God,_ it's good to see karma happen to someone else."

"True," he agreed. "Talking about a run of bad luck …"

She looked up alertly. "I'm listening."

"You know how you asked me to see if anyone from that meeting suffered any mysterious ill-fortune which might indicate that they were going against orders?" He didn't need to explain exactly which meeting, or what orders.

"Yes … ?"

He cleared his throat. "Just a little while ago, Commander Calvert was sitting at his desk when a large amount of water which had apparently accumulated on the ceiling tile directly over his chair … came down. Along with the ceiling tile. He was soaked, his computer was shorted out, which then zapped him clean off his chair, his phone was destroyed, and the ceiling tile broke his collarbone."

She blinked. "That's a pretty definitive run of bad luck. Anyone else report water leaks?"

He shrugged. "I asked around and checked with Maintenance. Nothing."

"So he'd be in the infirmary now?"

"Last I checked, they were setting the collarbone," confirmed Renick. "He expressed a wish to go home once they were finished."

Piggot showed her teeth as she stood up. "I think it might be a good idea to go and ask Commander Calvert some serious questions about his activities in connection to Butterfly, _before_ he leaves the building."

* * *

I looked up from the sofa as Dad paused at the back door and folded his umbrella. "Hi, Dad. Good day at work?"

"Wet," he grunted. "We had some idiot sneak on to the docksite. He got turned around and fell in the water. Idiot managed to break his collarbone. We caught him trying to sneak out again and handed him over to the police for trespassing."

"Wow," I marvelled. "We just had a few pop quizzes. And a library period for World Affairs. The cops are asking the teachers a lot of questions, and I don't think they like the answers."

"Good," Dad said with feeling. "Oh yeah, you want to tell your power to be a bit more careful. I nearly got struck by lightning. It came so close I could smell the ozone."

"Jeez, are you all right?" I jumped up off the sofa and went to him.

"Yeah, I'm fine. My feet tingled for about the next half hour, and I couldn't hear anything for about ten minutes afterward, but I'm good now." He paused. "Oh, and my hair was standing on end for most of the day."

I smirked, then tried to hide a chuckle. "Sorry. But it's kinda funny."

"Not if you're on the receiving end," he assured me.

"But you're not hurt?" I asked.

"Nope. Just scared the bejeebers out of me." He paused, then added, "I have to say, it was quite a shocking experience."

I groaned but hugged him anyway. "That was bad. But I'm glad you're okay. And hey, what if you were going to get struck by lightning and this was my power saving you?"

"Huh." His voice was thoughtful as he hugged me back. "I never considered that."

"Yup." I was in no doubt at all that this was what had happened. "Because my powers are awesome."

He ruffled my hair. "No argument here."

* * *

End of Part Eight


	9. Chapter 9

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Nine: Anvilicious

* * *

 **Monday Morning, January 3, 2011  
Brockton Bay**

It started with a sneeze.

Mary Worthington was brunching with her best friend, with her baby in the stroller beside her, when the sneeze spontaneously erupted. It was a genteel sneeze, barely worth the name, but she did not manage to cover her mouth in time.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, mortified. "I am _so_ sorry, Katarina. Whatever must you think of me?"

Katarina Aramis gave her friend a tolerant smile. "I think that you must be tired and a little worn down. Because no matter how delightful babies are – yes, yes you are," she cooed, reaching down to tickle little Heather under the chin, "they do take up your time and effort, don't they?"

Pulling out a tissue, Mary blew her nose. "I suppose so. But every time she smiles at me, it makes it all worthwhile." She took hold of Heather's tiny hand, her expression melting as the exquisitely perfect fingers grasped her pinky.

"I can see that," Katarina agreed. "I would _so_ like one of my own, even with all the difficulties and lost sleep. But James is just so busy all the time. It's as if the gallery is _his_ baby."

"Then _make_ time," Mary told her firmly. "If you want it, go and get it."

Katarina nodded firmly. "You know, I rather think I will."

They parted ways shortly thereafter. Mary went on to her favourite spa, where the attendants were sure to fuss over Heather as much as over her, while Katarina returned home. Mary would spend the next week sneezing occasionally, then it would go away, a mild winter cold come and gone.

It just so happened, however, that Katarina had inhaled a particularly virulent batch of the virus; it encountered a vulnerable section of mucous membrane and went to work. By the time her husband came home that evening, she had a cold well on the way. She was, although she couldn't know it, quite contagious.

She was also, due to her interaction with Heather, feeling in a mood to get closer to her husband. Ten years of marriage had not yet produced a baby, but then, they had never really tried for one before. The oncoming cold was leaving her slightly light-headed, not helped by the glass of red wine she had at dinner, so that night she gave it her not inconsiderable all.

Surprised and pleased, he responded well; what happened between them that night did much to rekindle the romance in what had become a rather routine marriage. By morning, she wasn't pregnant, though that would happen in time to come, but he did have a head cold.

Both of them ignored the symptoms on the first day, but on the second, they were too much to ignore. Katarina took to her bed, where the maid brought her regular infusions of steaming chicken soup; James, wearing slippers, a heavy bathrobe and with a blanket tucked around him, took up residence on the sofa and watched the news and other daily events while trying to come up with a new exhibition theme for the gallery. It was a slip of the thumb on the elaborate remote control that gave him his inspiration; instead of switching to the worldwide stock market pricings, the TV instead flipped on to a Western. At that moment, the scene was of a blacksmith shoeing a horse as the hero rode past into town.

He paused, watching the movie as it unrolled. His focus wasn't on the surprisingly clean-shaven and well-attired protagonist, but the surroundings. Wooden boardwalks, saloons with batwing doors, stagecoaches, the whole nine yards. After a while, he picked up the notepad that lay at his elbow and began jotting down notes. By the end of the movie – which he didn't bother watching – he had a plan firmly roughed out. The exhibition would concentrate not on the over-glorified violence and danger of those days, but the mundane daily lives that most people went through. Most especially, it would showcase those jobs that had been superseded by the march of time, but which had once upon a time been an essential part of society.

Blowing his nose, he picked up the phone and began to make some calls.

* * *

 **Wednesday, January 12, 2011  
Tennessee**

The Tennessee Iron Works Foundry had not matched up to the grandeur of its name when it first began operations, and it had declined considerably since then. Its origins dated back to the Civil War, turning out repeating rifles and revolvers and smaller paraphernalia for the war effort. Raw iron had come in; horseshoes, buckles, nails and dozens of other items had been produced and taken away.

Following the cessation of hostilities, the foundry had struggled on. There was always a market for nails and horseshoes, whether a war was being fought or not. Guns, too, were in demand, just not as much as before. Eventually, however, it had had to close its doors, as more modern methods of production had overtaken it. Grass had grown between the cracks of the concrete and the well-used tools and dies had languished in their various storage bins.

For decades, the property teetered on the brink of being demolished in place of something more upmarket, but it always seemed to be just a little more profitable to keep it on the books as a tax write-off than to actually do something with it. And then it was sold off. For the first time in years, the new owners actually came through and looked at the place.

These were people with vision. They had the building brought up to spec; the old tools were repaired, the dies brushed off and in some cases recast. When the foundry went into operation once more, it was again producing the iron nails and other items for which it had originally been constructed. But instead of going to hard-working farmers or new recruits to the Army, they went to collectors and re-enactors; people who liked to immerse themselves in a world long gone, perhaps to escape the grim realities of the present day.

A few days before, they had received an order for iron nails and replica blacksmithing tools. These they could supply. The client had also asked them if they could come up with a selection of anvils. Unfortunately, anvils were just a little out of the weight range that the foundry was used to dealing with, and so they were unable to manufacture them on site. However, making use of their widespread network of contacts, they were able to source no less than nine antique anvils.

In the meantime, the rest of the order would be much easier to fill; at that moment, the foundry was in the process of producing a run of nails. However, the rain system that had spread up the east coast from Miami was intensifying and although the damage of long disuse had been repaired, the roof was still old and water still found its way in. There it happened to find a section of wiring which had fallen prey to the local rodent population. Water dripped on to exposed copper, sparks flew and a short-circuit ensued. Throughout the building, the lights flickered, but there was no other result.

Or so they thought. As it happened, the equipment designed to ensure that cavitation did not occur within the metal being poured into molds had turned itself off to avoid damage from the power spike. Of the last few dozen nails made, a certain number ended up with a flaw embedded within them. Although invisible to the naked eye, these flaws ensured that the nails would break if and only if shear stresses were applied from a certain direction and over a certain amount of force.

When the short-circuit was discovered, the nails were, of course, randomly checked for problems. However, by sheer chance, those nails that were picked out were perfectly sound; all of the substandard ones slipped by and were thus packaged up. These were sent on to the next location. There they would be used to fasten together a heavy wooden table, which would then be transported north.

The anvils, on the other hand, were crated up and shipped directly to Brockton Bay. The smallest weighed in at seventy-five pounds, while the largest massed two hundred pounds of solid iron.

* * *

 **Friday, January 14, 2011  
Forsberg Gallery, Brockton Bay**

James Aramis pointed. "Okay, set the table up over there."

The table in question was large, requiring eight men to move it. This was because it was built from very thick planks, planed smooth by hand instead of machines. Heavy iron nails held it together; it would support the anvils which had been procured for the exhibition.

The anvils and the table were not the centrepiece of the exhibition; that would be the artworks which would surround and counterpoint them. Actual sculptures made of wrought-iron by those same blacksmiths who had used such anvils, paintings of the men at work, and other such pieces would be placed in this area of the exhibition.

'Over there' ended up being near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The men hefting the table set it down with a sigh of relief.

"No, no," he said. "Turn it ninety degrees, so that the end is toward the window. I want people walking _around_ it, not past it."

The shift boss nodded. "One, two, three, _lift,_ " he ordered, and they lifted the table. Carefully, they shuffled around, turning it so that one end was near the window, then set it down again.

"Better," noted Aramis. "Now, the anvils are crated up in the loading dock. I'm going to need you to uncrate them and set them out on the table. I've got place cards so that you know where to put them."

The men headed for the elevator. Once they were out of earshot from the gallery director, one of them shook his head slightly. "Anvils?" he muttered.

"Yeah, anvils," the shift boss agreed. "We use the trolley jack and we take it real careful. One of those things lands on your foot, you won't have a foot any more."

Nobody argued with that.

* * *

 **The PRT Building, the previous day**

"Commander Calvert."

Thomas looked up from the form he was awkwardly filling out with his left hand. "Yes, Director?"

Emily Piggot stepped into the sickbay and sat down in the chair next to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

He could tell from the tone of her voice that she couldn't care less how he was feeling, but he went along with it. "I've been better," he said non-committally. "They gave me something for the pain, and the sling helps. But a broken collarbone is no fun at all." He paused a beat, then added, "Thanks for asking."

From the twist of her lip, he could tell that she had picked up all the nuances of what he was saying. For his part, he resolved to think carefully about what else he said; the local they'd given him for the pain wasn't fuzzing his thoughts too badly, but he still wasn't on best form.

"Well, it could have been worse, I imagine," she noted. "So tell me, what the hell did you think you were doing?"

"Director," began the sickbay attendant. "Commander Calvert is -"

"In my chain of command. As are you." Piggot's eyes never shifted from Calvert. "Kindly absent yourself. He will still be healthy when you return."

The tone of her voice would have etched steel; from the corner of his eye, Calvert saw the man exiting the room with some haste. He watched her take a digital recorder from her pocket and thumb the switch on. "This is the record of an interview between Director Emily Piggot and Commander Thomas Calvert on Thursday, January thirteen, two thousand and eleven," she enunciated. "Commander Calvert, please identify yourself for the record."

Taking a deep breath, he cleared his suddenly-dry throat. "This is Commander Thomas Calvert, Parahuman Response Teams," he said clearly. "What do you wish to know?"

"I will repeat my earlier question," Piggot replied. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Splitting timelines was second nature for him by now. In both of them, he was still sitting on the bed with the clipboard on his lap. The delay with the sickbay attendant had given him time to think, and he had used it well. _There are two ways I can go from here. Fortunately, I can try them both._

* * *

 **Timeline A**

 _Agree agree agree._

"You're right, Director," he agreed. "It was my fault. I screwed up totally."

A blink was the only indication he got of her surprise. "Keep talking."

"You _warned_ us," he expanded. "You warned us about considering her to be a threat. But I was a field agent, like you, back in Ellisburg. You know how hard is is for us to _not_ see a powerful parahuman as a potential threat."

He could see her struggling not to empathise with him. It was hard for her, because her feelings toward capes started at 'mild distrust' and went up from there. He had picked this approach for that very reason.

"You know that _I_ feel that way," she snapped. "You've always struck me as being more of a moderate in the matter."

"Just because I don't distrust them all the time doesn't mean that I don't see the threat that they pose," he shot back, having anticipated such an answer. "I'm pretty sure that you've got a black file somewhere around here. I know that I have."

Her lips pursed even tighter, confirming his supposition. The term 'black file' was only used between non-parahuman members of the PRT, referring to a file composed of ways to take down currently-friendly members of the Protectorate and other teams, should they ever turn on their allies. Such a file was in no way sanctioned at any level of the PRT, and was never officially acknowledged. By mentioning it, Calvert had just rendered the recorded interview null and void.

"Fine then," she muttered, turning off the recorder. "But you were ordered not to run a threat assessment."

"But I _didn't,"_ he protested, his expression and tone conveying – he hoped – innocence. "I never wrote a single word down, never gave an order to anyone." He tapped his temple with his left forefinger. "It was all in here. A thought experiment, you might say. Daydreaming, even. Woolgathering. Just thinking about ways that it might just possibly be viable to take down such a cape, should she turn out to be hostile."

"And look where it got you." Piggot nodded at his sling. "Electrical burns and a broken collarbone."

"Well, yes," he admitted. "And you were right. I have absolutely no intent of ever attempting anything hostile against her. Which I suppose is the point of what happened to me. I'm totally convinced that it's a really bad idea to even consider trying to take her down."

"Which I could have told you before," Piggot pointed out. "In fact, I believe that I did. Specifically." Despite herself, he could see, her attitude toward him was softening. He had screwed up, taken the hits, and admitted his error. _It's hard to stay angry at someone who keeps agreeing with you._

"Yes, you did." He gestured at his injured shoulder. "And you were totally right. I didn't see _how_ right you were, before, but now I do."

"Good." She stood up. "You're not going to try this again?"

His laugh was short, totally lacking in humour, and absolutely sincere. "Do I _look_ like a suicidal moron?"

Her answering smile was dry. "I had wondered. Consider yourself on leave until that shoulder heals." Standing up, she moved toward the door. "And Calvert?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Sometimes I do actually know what I'm talking about. You might want to consider that."

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." She turned and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Slowly, he allowed himself to relax. _Well, that could have gone worse._

* * *

 **Timeline B**

 _Deny deny deny._

"What do you mean, what the hell was I thinking?" He matched his tone to hers.

"I _mean,"_ she snapped, "that very shortly after I warned you against antagonising a reality-manipulating cape, you obviously did exactly that, considering the situation that you ended up in."

"Obviously?" he retorted. "So what, just because you have the theory that someone _may_ have triggered with omniscient reality-manipulation abilities, as soon as someone has an accident thereafter it's because they did something to upset that cape?"

"The timing is pretty damn suspicious, Calvert," she said hotly. "As are your injuries."

"What _about_ my injuries?" he asked. "My computer short-circuited and zapped me, and I fell off my chair and broke my collarbone."

She leaned forward, her glare becoming more intense. "We think that there was an attempted attack on Taylor Hebert's father this afternoon. Police arrested a stranger found in the dockyards. He had electrical burns and a broken collarbone. They also found a steel pipe with burns on it that could have been made by a lightning strike. Also, Hebert reports nearly being struck by lightning. My theory is that this stranger was about to attack him and was struck by lightning. At almost exactly the same time, as far as we can tell, you had your mishap with the computer, suffering near-identical injuries. What do you say to _that?"_

"I _think,"_ he snarled in reply, "that coincidences _still happen,_ reality manipulating cape or no. Electrocution is a very common form of injury in the home. And the collarbone is one of the easiest bones in the body to break." He waited till she opened her mouth to speak, then went on. "Has anyone checked the background of that supposed assailant? That might be an easy way to find out who's paying him to attack Hebert and why – if, in fact, that's what he was there for."

Her eyes promised him dire retribution for cutting her off, but she nodded reluctantly. "The police say that he's a known member of the Empire Eighty-Eight, but that _he_ says he quit the gang after Kaiser was captured."

Calvert snorted. "Yeah, anyone can say anything. I think that's case closed on that one, yes? The Empire kidnapped the Hebert girl and got hammered. One of the members didn't get the memo and went after her father."

He held up a finger as Piggot went to answer. "Now, I'll admit that the lightning strike seems a little coincidental, but it could have happened that way, especially if this guy was holding a steel pipe over his head like a lightning rod. But what I will categorically deny is that I had anything to do with it. Why would I even want to attack either the girl or her father? You gave us chapter and verse on her powers. It sounds like the height of stupidity to me."

"I have no idea why you'd want to be so idiotic," she agreed, "but the truth remains that your injuries correlate closely with the intruder's, and so does the timing. I think you went after Daniel Hebert. I just don't know _why."_

"Well, you can _think_ all you like," he told her, "but unless and until you get solid proof that I've got anything to do with this – _any_ proof, any at all – I would advise you to refrain from throwing wild accusations around. Because no matter what you might decide it looks like, having an odd accident happen to someone is not actually proof of anything _except that they've had an accident."_

"Yes, but -" she began, but he overrode her.

"And even if it _is_ this Hebert girl's power at work, there's still no proof that it's a result of me trying something against her. Maybe she's had a bad day and her power's acting out. Maybe it's malicious and likes to target people for no good reason. Maybe it's inaccurate. Maybe it's got backsplash. All _you've_ got is the supposition that she's reacting to a potential attack on her, that her power's able to target just those involved, and that it's responding in a proportionate manner. None of which you've got any proof for. Have you?"

She paused, apparently waiting for something. When nothing happened for a long moment, she spoke, her voice low and deadly.

"No, Commander Calvert. I have no proof for it. I have a lot of examples of her power reacting in a timely and deserved manner. I can't _prove_ that her power only ever works in that way, but I _believe_ it. So you can bet that I will be opening an investigation into you, into every facet of your life, turning over every stone, until I find evidence that either proves or disproves my belief once and for all." She paused then, like him, spoke just as he was about to make a comment. "You've got sick leave. Use it. But don't leave town."

"With pleasure." He deliberately left it vague about which part of her statement he was referring to.

"Good." She stood up. "This ends the interview." She clicked off the recorder, then turned toward him. "Are you working for Coil?"

The suddenness of the question startled him into a laugh. "Ha – no, Director. No, seriously. That's the last thing I'd ever do. What makes you even think of that?"

Her eyes narrowed, leaving him wondering what was going on behind them. "No reason. But we'll be checking that angle too. Whatever you _are_ up to, we'll find out."

She moved toward the door; as she opened it, he spoke up. "Director, just one question. Why are you telling me all this? Why let me know what you suspect me of?"

Her head turned, her eyes raking over him. "Because I know you've got every second file clerk slipping you information. It's the way you work. If we started an investigation on you on the sly, you'd have chapter and verse before the day was out." She showed her teeth in what might have been a smile. "At least this way, I get to watch you squirm."

With that, she left the sickbay, closing the door quietly behind her. Almost, he terminated the timeline. But he didn't. He had learned his lesson.

 _It's not totally unsalvageable yet._

* * *

 **Friday, January 14, 2011  
Forsberg Gallery, Brockton Bay**

The forklift was small enough to fit into the freight elevator. Its tyres were large and soft, the better to travel over the polished-marble floors without leaving marks. Upon its tines rested a forge to go with the anvils. It was actually a genuine forge, built from fired clay bricks, and looked authentic as hell, despite being only about fifty years old. Once it was put into place, the bellows and blacksmithing tools would be set up around it.

"Set it up at the end of the table," James Aramis directed the driver. "Careful, now."

 _Yeah, yeah, careful is my middle name,_ the driver thought sourly, but he schooled his features to politeness. "Yes, sir," he agreed. "Careful it is."

Manipulating the levers of the forklift with all the skill at his command, he eased the small vehicle forward, the electric motor humming audibly. The forge was resting on a pallet, which would be concealed with window-dressing once it was set on the floor, but the problem was that he had to get it dead straight to start with; any attempt to move it might just scratch the marble, and Mr Aramis would go ballistic.

Brow furrowed with concentration, he lined up the forklift and brought it in toward the table. Just as he was about to lower the forks and see how that looked, he was distracted by a fluttering motion out of the corner of his eye. Looking around, he jumped as a large monarch butterfly flitted right into his face for just a second. "Whoa!" His hand brushed one of the controls and the forklift jolted forward slightly, bringing the forge sharply into contact with the end of the table.

Normally, this would not have been an issue. The table was three feet clear of the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined this floor of the gallery; the impact should have moved it barely an inch. The forge was unmarked by the collision, the rugged brickwork shrugging it off.

But with a sound like several simultaneous gunshots, a number of nails gave way all at once; the table lurched forward, the far legs folding underneath. With a loud crash, the end of the table hit the floor, forming a ramp that ended right next to one of the windows.

The first anvil, the smallest one, began to slide down the table, then the second. And then they were all in motion. There was a certain inevitability to it, the only thing standing in their way being the tempered glass of the window.

Aramis' mouth was opening, whether to shout orders or to say something else, when the smallest anvil hit the glass, side on.

The glass cracked, but the anvil stopped.

* * *

 **Coil's Secret Underground Base  
At the Same Time**

 **Timeline A**

Thomas Calvert climbed from the back of the van. It had been an absolute pain – quite literally – to get into the costume with the broken collarbone hampering his movements, but sacrifices sometimes have to be made. Into the base he strode, his mercenaries stiffening to attention as he passed by. He nodded in return; the base seemed to be in good order, although he made a mental note to check on the moisture detectors, and to have the wall in the lower levels reinforced, just in case.

He'd had to wait a day before returning to his base, just in case his movements were under observation. But it seemed that his conversation with Piggot had had the desired effect, and that any suspicions had been diverted from him. _Though where they got the idea that Thomas Calvert was working for Coil, I have no clue._

That was something he would have to investigate, he decided. It probably wasn't something that he could glean from his network within the PRT – while Piggot knew about it, it wasn't exactly breaking the rules to find out information through backchannels like that – so he would have to use more illegal means. _Fortunately, I have just the thing._

Entering his office, he closed the door before sitting down at his computer. Typing left-handed would hamper him a little, but he could manage, he decided. But first things first; he hit the power button to wake the computer up from its electronic slumber.

Except that it wasn't slumbering. Almost immediately, the screen came on; lines of data were scrolling up the screen, almost as if he were performing a search. _But I just_ _ **got**_ _here._ His expression went from puzzled to horrified in seconds as he realised just what was going on. _Someone's tapped into my system from the outside and is going through it._

"Shit," he muttered. "No … no … no." His left hand flew over the keyboard, shutting down windows as fast as he could. Whoever was on the other end would know something was going on, but right now, cutting off the leak was of prime concern.

* * *

 **Timeline B**

 _They'll be watching me._

He didn't know that for certain, but he would have done it in Piggot's place, and she was at least as paranoid as he was, perhaps more so. Ten years of running the local PRT station, while the city slowly went to hell around her, would not have served to make her any kind of complacent. So he had planned on being under surveillance, and was working on being the most boring target for such in the history of espionage.

The previous night, he had slept in his own bed. It had been an uncomfortable rest, due to his injury, but he had gotten through the night. In the long hours before getting to sleep, he had planned out his next moves.

 _Wander around town for the next few days, while gathering my resources. Then leave town._ Between the mysterious and possibly vindictive powers of Taylor Hebert and the suspicions of Emily Piggot, Brockton Bay was getting far too warm for him. He had no intention of drawing the ire of Taylor Hebert again; once had been definitely too much. _I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life._

He still hadn't decided exactly where he would move to. A city with a relatively high parahuman population would be ideal; one with a strong crime index would also be helpful. _Boston would be too close, New York too large._

Still considering his options, he strolled down the street in the general direction of a good restaurant that he knew. The Forsberg Gallery was just up ahead; the display banners outside described an upcoming exhibition. He briefly considered attending; if he was under surveillance, it would make an ideal time to break away from his watchers.

He never heard the window break, far above.

* * *

 **Timeline A**

When the last tab had closed, he used the trackpad to select an icon and click on it; this showed him that the firewalls were down and his computer was fully vulnerable. He clicked again to reactivate them.

A window popped up. AUTHENTICATE USER.

 _Of course._ Changing security settings – such as turning on the firewall – required a password to be entered. How it had been turned _off_ was something that he would have to find out. _Is there a traitor in the base?_ He would have bet good money that there wasn't, but stranger things had happened. _Now I'm going to have to vet them all. Again._

Working as quickly as he could, he tapped out the authentication code with his left hand, then reached across to hit Enter. However, instead of showing up USER AUTHENTICATED as it should have, instead the screen flashed red.

INTRUDER DETECTED, the words spilled across the screen accusingly. ENTER AUTHENTICATION CODE IMMEDIATELY.

Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, he re-entered the code more carefully. _I don't know what's going on, but I can't make any mistakes now._

For a long moment after he hit Enter, the screen went blank. When it came back on, his blood ran cold.

INTRUDER INTRUDER INTRUDER.

BASE SELF-DESTRUCT ENGAGED.

DESTRUCT IN 15:00:00.

"What?" he blurted. "No! I did it right!"

Ignoring his words, the numbers began counting down, the two digits on the far right whirling so fast they were a blur. Outside his office, a siren began whooping in the tone he had selected for 'evacuate the base immediately'. The drills he had held were paying off, he noted absently; running boots outside the door indicated that nobody was standing around asking what was going on.

But he didn't move from the chair. _I can still fix this._

Forcing himself to stay calm, he carefully entered a second code. This would freeze his computer; it would take several hours to unlock it, but in the meantime, he would be able to go into it and manually turn off the self-destruct directive. Double-checking each of the memorised characters, he finally nodded and pressed Enter.

HACKING ATTEMPT DETECTED.

SELF-DESTRUCT IN 05:00:00.

"No!" he shouted. "No! What's going on?" At the back of his mind, he knew, but he didn't want to admit it, not quite yet.

There was one last code he could enter. This would wipe the entire system, force a reload from backups. He would lose everything that hadn't been backed up in the last week.

 _Christ. It's a rock and a hard place._

 _Her power is trying to force me to drop this timeline._

 _This is the_ _ **good**_ _timeline._

 _Fuuuuck._

Gritting his teeth, he entered the final code. With his forefinger, he stabbed at the Enter key.

NICE TRY, SUCKER.

SELF-DESTRUCT IN 01:00:00.

For a long moment, he stared at the message on the screen. "But I didn't even code that in," he protested. "Who wrote _that?"_

Then his survival instincts kicked in; leaping from the chair, he darted to the door. _Almost a minute to go. Maybe I can still make it._

But the door refused to unlock, even when he frantically tapped out the code on the keypad. After two further attempts, he gave it up and turned back to the computer. There was less than thirty seconds to go. Hopelessly, he watched the numbers scroll down to their inevitable conclusion. With less than ten seconds to go, he raised his eyes and one fist to the ceiling.

"But I wasn't going to _do_ anything!" he screamed.

When the explosions went off, he lost consciousness almost immediately, so he was never quite sure whether it was the shockwave that killed him or the falling rubble.

* * *

 **Timeline B  
Forsberg Gallery**

"Stop – stop it!" James Aramis' voice rose above all others, but it was too late. The second anvil hit the first, transmitting the shock of impact through to the window; what had been a few cracks spread almost too fast for the eye to see, and became a hole. The first anvil slipped through and disappeared, falling toward the pavement far below. But the second anvil was a little larger, and hung up just for a moment … until the _third_ anvil hit it.

One by one, they slid down the length of the table. Had the slope been a little less pronounced, or the craftwork on the table left it a little rougher, disaster might yet have been averted. But such was not to be. Two men each tried to grab an anvil, but the handholds were not good and the momentum too great; one was dragged along briefly by the mass of metal, while the other lost his grip immediately.

One by one, in a stately train of destruction, each anvil hit the hole in the window, opening it ever so slightly more, then vanished through.

Finally, in counterpoint, the blue monarch butterfly that had caused the entire debacle floated to the hole in the window, hesitated there for a moment, then flitted outside.

In the silence that followed, James Aramis broke the habit of many years.

"Fuck."

* * *

The first that Thomas Calvert knew of anything amiss was when the anvil landed in front of him. Had he not paused to read the banner, it would have crushed him utterly; as it was, it punched its way into the concrete with a shattering impact, sending cracks radiating in all directions.

Instinctively, he split time; one version of himself stayed where he was, while the other leaped backward. That one died, as an anvil landed right on top of him.

Another split; a leap to the left. Another anvil, another messy death. A leap to the right. A _fourth_ anvil landed, once more a direct hit. He stopped splitting time after that, staying right where he was, as four more anvils rained down around him, filling in the gaps between the first four.

His ears were still ringing from the tremendous crashes, his throat scratchy from the concrete dust thrown up by the impacts, but he vaguely registered that he was standing in a circle of eight anvils, each with its horn pointed directly at him.

 _Anvils? The fuck?_

And then the last one landed, on top of the first. It smashed down so hard that the first one was driven below ground level, the ringing of metal on metal so loud that it overrode the previous clamour in his ears.

 _I'm still alive._ Resolutely, he ignored the warm trickle down his left leg and repressed the whimper that arose in his throat. _Still alive. Oh god. I was nearly killed. By anvils. Falling from the sky._

It took him a few moments to notice that the last anvil wasn't pointing its horn directly at him, but somewhere off to the side. He leaned forward and looked along the line, to see what he had already half-expected. With renewed purpose, he stepped over the closest anvil and set off in that direction.

* * *

Amanda Curren stifled a yawn.

It was a slow afternoon on the reception desk at the Brockton Bay PRT building. School wasn't out yet, so the teenagers weren't flooding through the lobby and buying posters and such at the gift shop. There hadn't been any alarms; the guards in the lobby, as bored as Amanda was, were watching the newsfeed on the screen in the corner or chatting in low tones, not made any easier by their full-face helmets. She glanced around to ensure that her supervisor was elsewhere, then tapped a few keys on her keyboard. Up in one corner of her screen, a small window opened, with a classic comedy espionage show. She'd channel-surfed on to one of the episodes a week ago, and had become quite addicted to it.

Just as she did so, the slightest of shudders went through the building. It was there and gone in an instant, leaving her wondering if she'd even actually felt it; a few moments later, she thought she heard a very distant explosion, or something like it. Pausing the show, she clicked the button on her headset that allowed her to listen in on the guards' chatter. "You guys hear that?" she asked.

" _Yeah,"_ the corporal in charge answered. _"What was it? Any alerts?"_

"Not yet," Amanda told him. "Might want to look alive, guys. Someone's gonna come make sure we're all doing our jobs." As she did so, she minimised the window with her show. Then she maximised the window with current alerts. Nothing was showing up.

Since Kaiser and the bulk of the Empire Eighty-Eight had gone down – she still got the giggles when she thought about how – the rest of the gang had been very quiet. The ABB and the Merchants rarely did anything in downtown. And surely if there was a cape battle going on, _someone_ would have phoned it in.

" _Kowalski, report."_ That would be the lieutenant who had just stepped out of the elevator. Amanda knew what the report would be, so she clicked over on to her regular channel and did her best to appear alert and on the ball.

And not a moment too soon; a few seconds later, George stepped up behind her. He wasn't bad as supervisors went, although he would have a few choice words for her if he caught her watching TV shows on duty. No matter _how_ boring it was.

"Anything on the alert feed, Amanda?" he asked quietly.

She checked it again, although nothing had popped up since she had last looked. "Nothing. But whatever that was, it was either really big or fairly close."

"And we should've gotten a notification either way." He sounded puzzled. She could understand why.

"I don't know either," she offered. "Maybe it wasn't a cape battle?"

He snorted. "What else sends a shock wave like that?"

"Maybe someone blew up a bank?" She figured it was safe to make a joke.

"We'd still get an alert in that case." He paused. "Let me check something." She leaned out of the way, vaguely aware of the guards forming up under the lieutenant's direction, as George tapped a few keys on her keyboard. Opening a window on her computer, he went through a series of menu choices that she hadn't even known were there. A map of the surrounding area popped up, with a series of radiating circles centred around a specific spot.

She blinked. "What … ?"

His tone was pleased. "They installed a seismograph last month. Seems like it's paying off."

She tilted her head, trying to make sense of the map. "Why, that's the Forsberg Gallery. What could be happening there?"

"I'm not certain," he mused. "But whatever it was …"

He trailed off as honking horns and screeching tyres, audible even through the two sets of automatic doors, drew their attention.

"Uh, maybe something _is_ happening out there," she ventured.

"Here," he muttered. "Let me see." Going through yet another set of menu commands, he brought up the feed from the outside security cameras. Cars were indeed stopping and swerving, all to avoid a pale figure, almost skeletally thin, that was walking in a direct line across the road toward the PRT building. Oddly enough, he had his right arm in a sling.

The image was black-and-white, but Amanda was pretty certain that the person – cape, whatever – didn't have a normal skin tone. And he was walking steadily, with purpose, ignoring traffic utterly. Which meant a certain fixity of intent, or the ability to not have to worry about such things as a car hitting him, or both. Either way, this was serious business.

George obviously thought so too. "Lieutenant!" he called out; the officer's head turned. "Incoming. I'm putting it on the screen." All five guards looked at the screen in the corner; with a few more keystrokes and a mouse-click, George had the security feed up there.

"Hutchins! Jensen!" The orders were loud enough for Amanda to hear them without being patched into their channel. "If this guy causes trouble, foam him down!" She guessed that he was addressing the two guards equipped with containment foam dispensers.

"Should we drop the shutters?" she asked quietly. Containment foam was a part of the induction at the PRT building; every employee had to undergo being encased in the off-yellow substance, just so they knew what it felt like. It was guaranteed non-carcinogenic and non-toxic, but nobody actually _liked_ it. For her part, Amanda had still been scrubbing the residue out of her hair a week later; she didn't want to go through that again.

"Let's wait," George decided. "It might provoke him into doing something. Maybe we can calm this situation down without resorting to harsher methods."

The honking and screeching ceased as the tall form reached the pavement. Still moving at that same implacable pace, he walked up to the automatic doors, which of course parted for him, as did the inner set. Amanda saw the guards become more tense as he entered the lobby proper. It looked to her as if the man had been doused in a greyish powder from head to toe, clothes and all.

A moment later, the ominous atmosphere was dispelled as the man stopped and sneezed violently, the very action shaking powder from his clothing. A second sneeze racked his body, then a third.

Abruptly, the lieutenant gestured for his men to lower their weapons; Amanda couldn't hear what he was saying over the radio, but she guessed that he had given an order, because the guns and foam sprayers were pointed at the ground. The officer stepped forward to face the newcomer.

"Commander Calvert?" he asked. "Is that you?"

* * *

Calvert repressed another sneeze, and looked at the blank faceplate. "Yes, Lieutenant, it's me," he said thickly. "I need to speak to Director Piggot."

"I … yes, sir," the lieutenant responded. Stepping back, he gestured to his men, who stood down from their various positions of readiness.

Stepping forward, Calvert approached the desk, where a well-groomed older man stood beside the receptionist. "I need you to contact the Director immediately," he instructed them. "Tell her that it's Thomas Calvert, that she was right, and that I will tell her everything."

The woman glanced at the man – obviously her supervisor – and he nodded. "Yes, sir," she replied belatedly. "I'll do that immediately."

She must have been a little flustered, because when she hit keys on her keyboard, the first thing that Calvert heard was the soundtrack from a TV show. He recognised it almost immediately from the main character's catchphrase: _"Good thinking, Ninety-Nine!"_

The supervisor, his expression unimpressed, cleared his throat sternly; the woman, looking mortified, shut off the sound and tapped a few more keys. "Uh, Director, this is Amanda down in Reception. Yes, I have Commander Calvert here to see you. He says to say that you were right and that he'll tell you everything."

He was barely listening; the sense of relief washing through him nearly made his knees buckle. _That was no accident. I'm where I need to be._

"Uh, sir? Commander?" Abruptly, he became aware that she was addressing him.

"Yes?" He pulled his attention back to the here and now.

"You can go straight up. She'll be waiting for you."

Not bothering to answer, he turned on his heel and made for the elevators; behind him, he heard the supervisor say ominously, "Amanda. My office. Now."

But her fate was not his concern. Thomas Calvert only had one person's well-being in mind at the moment. He stepped into the lift; the doors interleaved shut behind him.

* * *

When the knock sounded on her office door, Emily turned on the voice recorder and assumed an expression of polite interest. "Come in," she called.

The door opened and an apparition in grey stepped inside. Emily stared. It was Calvert, of course, but …

"My god, what _happened_ to you?" she blurted.

"Anvils," Calvert replied hollowly, and somewhat obscurely. "Too many anvils."

 _Anvils?_ She eyed him as he came closer, shedding a coarse grey powder. She recognised the smell of it from across the room, along with another one, more acrid. "Is that … concrete powder?"

"Close." He collapsed into a chair, coating it with more of the grey stuff. "It's concrete dust. _Anvils."_ The last word was a groan.

As curious as she was, Emily decided to cut to the chase. "You said that I was right. Explain."

He took a deep breath, then coughed a few times. Finally clearing his throat, he looked at her. "You were right. I was trying something on Taylor Hebert. Specifically, I wanted to see how well her power protected her father. The man on the Docks, he was in my pay."

Her eyes widened slightly at the frank confession, then narrowed once more. "Keep talking. I need to know _why._ "

He nodded. "I'm Coil."

It took a moment for her to register his statement. "Wait – the _supervillain_ Coil?"

Jerkily, he nodded. "I think I'm supposed to tell you everything. Well, that's it. I've got powers, I'm a supervillain. I tried to find out whether Taylor Hebert's powers protect her father. Apparently, they do, quite well."

Emily paused for a moment to take this in. "And what was the aim of that?"

"If they did, my plan was to ingratiate myself into her life until her powers protected me as well," he explained frankly. "I severely underestimated the scope and power of her abilities. She saw me coming long before I'd ever even heard of her."

A dry smile twisted Emily's mouth. "Not the first time I've heard that of her," she agreed. "So what made you think you could even get away with attacking her father like that?"

For a long moment, he hesitated, then spoke. "I have powers."

She put aside her surprise at the admission to address the concern behind it. "So does Kaiser. He didn't fare very well either. What made you think that you're different?"

He grimaced. "My power lets me try out an option then drop it if it doesn't work, with nobody the wiser," he admitted. "But her power gets around it. She hit me in both timelines." His voice rose. "This is the first time that's ever happened! It's not _fair!"_

She fought down her amusement. "You broke your collarbone in this, uh, timeline. What happened in the other one that made you pick this one?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh god. _Everything."_

Emily was starting to see where this was going. "So a series of unfortunate accidents led you to this point, right?"

"Not accidents. Never accidents." He shook his head violently, showering concrete dust on to her desk. "All planned. By her power. _Days_ ahead of time. _Waiting_ for me to find out about her and go after her father."

"Okay," she said. "So what happened to you _today?"_

"Anvils," he replied. "Eight of them. No, nine. They fell out of the sky, outside the Forsberg Gallery. Around me. A neat circle. One after the other. The ninth one landed on top of the first one. It was a message." He stopped, apparently reliving the experience.

"Message?" she prompted.

" _I can get you any time, any place,"_ he stated. _"No matter how far you run, I will get you. And you will never see me coming."_

"Sounds about right," she agreed. "But what I'm curious about is why now? You said yesterday that you weren't going to go after her any more. Why did you?"

"But I _didn't,"_ he insisted. "I was actually making plans to leave town. I wanted no more to do with her."

"And then a bunch of anvils landed around you."

"And then …" He shuddered. "Yes."

"So what do you think it means?"

He raised haunted eyes to hers. "I think it means that her power knows about my power, and wants me to spend the rest of my life giving _her_ the best life she can have."

She pursed her lips. "Or she just wanted you to come in and give yourself up. You've already admitted to being a supervillain, so I could have you placed under arrest -"

At that moment, the lights in her office flickered and buzzed. Without missing a beat, she went on, "- but on second thought, I think it would be amusing to watch a former supervillain work to make someone else's life _better_ for a change." Her smile became razor-edged as she added, "Without ever letting her know what you're doing."

The buzzing stopped, as did the flickering. She let herself relax slightly. _That was the right call._

Resignedly, he nodded. "Well, I suppose that I'd better get to it." He stood, then paused. "There's something that I want to know, but I'm not sure that I want to know. If you know what I mean."

Emily gestured. "Spit it out."

He grimaced. "If I had ignored the anvils … what then?"

It was a good question. She typed rapidly, bringing up the Forsberg Gallery website. "Ah, so that's where the anvils came from. A pioneer days exhibition." She clicked on a tab. "And … ah ha."

"Ah ha?"

She turned the screen so that he could see. "Antique pianos. About six of them. Answer your question?"

"Oh, yes." The hollow tone was back. "It does indeed. She even had that planned out."

She raised an eyebrow. "Or maybe they were just there to answer any doubts that you had."

"Is there a difference?" He turned and made for the door.

As he put his hand on the door handle, she cleared her throat. "Oh, and just by the way? We know about your base."

He nodded. "I know. Leave me some of my assets so that I can do what I've been told to do?"

"Certainly." Her tone was magnanimous. "We might need you to do work for us too, once in a while. So long as it doesn't interfere with your new job."

He turned to look at her, his expression that of a man with his unmentionables caught in a slowly tightening vice. "You don't give an inch, do you?"

Hers was that of a well-fed cat, with canary feathers in its whiskers. "In your case, not on your life." She paused a beat, for perfect timing. "And Calvert?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to change your pants. I believe you've wet yourself."

" _Anvils!"_ It was a wail.

The door closed behind him; Emily checked the website and dialled a number into her phone. "Hello, yes. This is Director Piggot of the PRT. I'd like to talk to your manager, please. Yes, it's about the anvils. Yes, I'll hold."

As she waited, she leaned back in her chair and allowed herself a smile.

 _Anvils. Well, she's got style, I'll give her that._

* * *

 **Later That Evening  
The Hebert Household**

"Hey, Dad, check this out."

Danny stepped through from the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand. "What is it?"

Taylor pointed at the TV screen. A reporter was pointing at a circle of what looked like anvils embedded in the concrete; she had the TV muted so that the woman's lips were moving soundlessly. The caption read _Amazing Escape from Death_. "Does that look like something that would happen normally?"

Danny stared at the screen. The concrete was cracked around the anvils, but they were placed with almost millimetric precision in a circle, the pointy bits – he had no idea what they were called – aligned inward.

"Yeah, no," he agreed. "That could very well be your power at work. Has anyone been hassling you recently?"

She shrugged. "Nope. The new teachers at school have been really good at keeping an eye on that sort of thing."

"Huh. Well, let me know if anything else like that happens."

"Okay."

He went back to cooking dinner, and she went back to her homework. Life went on in the Hebert household.

* * *

End of Part Nine


	10. Chapter 10

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Ten: Draggin' Ass

* * *

 _[A/N: This chapter has been beta-read, and considerably improved upon, by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]_

* * *

 **Monday, January 3, 2011**

* * *

CHICKEN

IT'S NOT JUST FOR DINNER

Capping the marker pen, Joe Pullman sat back and looked at the mock ad he'd just sketched out. "No," he muttered. "It's not enough."

As the head of one of the largest poultry concerns in New England, he was trying to work out a way of educating his fellow Americans about the fact that allowing a chicken to lay eggs instead of being slaughtered for its meat would supply far more than its own body weight in nutrition over its lifetime. Everywhere he went, fast-food places offered a dozen varieties of chicken burger or deep-fried wings or two-for-one drumsticks, while about one in ten offered any sort of egg as part of a meal. _They eat eggs for breakfast and chicken all day long._

He leaned forward again and put the sheet of paper down on the coffee table, weighing down the top half with a folded paper bearing a headline about the decline of American horse racing; specifically, the Grand National. _They're not the only ones._ He stared again at his bold words, trying to see them with the eye of a consumer and work out what would make people want to buy eggs instead of chicken. _The wording's wrong. I've got to put it some other way._

Grace, his wife of twenty years, entered the room with another newspaper in her hand. "Hon," she said. "Can we go to the Mardi Gras in New Orleans this year? They say it might be shutting down in the next few years, and I want to see it at least once."

He looked up at her, a smile crossing his lips. "You just want to see the shirtless street dancers." His tone robbed the words of any sting.

"And you don't want to see the topless women?" She sat on the sofa beside him and put her arm around him.

"Pretty sure that's a myth." He leaned into her. "But I'll make you a deal. If I can pull off some sort of ad deal that brings eggs back into the public eye, we'll go to Mardi Gras."

"Deal!" she said immediately. As she tossed her paper toward the coffee table, a random gust of air caught it, flipping it over in midair. Having read the paper earlier that morning, he knew that the headline read 'Mardi Gras Festival Declining', but the way she'd folded it, the first two words ended up on the underside as it landed on top of Joe's mock ad.

Joe stared at the table. The upper paper had the word 'National', then there was the word 'Chicken' in his own writing. Finally, on Grace's paper, was the word 'Festival'.

"National Chicken Festival," he said out loud. "Grace, you're a genius."

"I'm what again now?" she asked.

He grabbed her and kissed her. "We're going to Mardi Gras!"

"Woohoo!" Unsure what had brought this on, she nevertheless whooped and kissed him back. "You're the best, honey!"

Another thought struck him, and he picked up the phone. "I've gotta make some calls."

"Don't be too long." Grace got up from the couch. "I'll be in the bedroom. Come find me when you've finished your calls. We'll have a Mardi Gras of our own." She sashayed out of the room, casting her best impression of a sultry gaze behind her.

He gulped and stabbed numbers on the phone. He'd make the calls short.

* * *

 **Wednesday, January 5, 2011**

* * *

Mayor Roy Christner pushed his reading glasses up his nose and peered at the sheet of paper in his hand. Then he looked up at the group of people standing uncertainly before his desk. "So … a chicken festival." He kept his voice non-committal.

"That's right, your honour," Joe Pullman said. "We represent poultry interests across the state. People aren't buying as many eggs as they used to. Too much pre-digested fast food. We want to show people that, far from being just one meal, a chicken can supply eggs over and over again. So we want to portray chickens as being a _supplier_ of food rather than the food itself. Alive, rather than dead. When was the last time _you_ saw a live chicken?"

"Right, right, I get it." Roy glanced down at the paper again, and made some mental calculations. "All right, then. How long will you need to get set up?"

Pullman turned to the rest of the group; they whispered together briefly. Then he turned back. "A week, maybe a week and a half," he said.

Roy nodded and checked his calendar. "All right. You can have Monday the seventeenth. Start setting up Sunday evening, be cleaned up and gone by Tuesday morning." He made a note on his desk pad. "Is that satisfactory?" His tone said _It had better be._

"That's perfect," Pullman said. "Thank you. Thank you so much." He stepped forward and extended his hand; Roy stood and shook it. "This means a lot to us."

Roy tilted his head as the group moved toward the door. "Just one thing."

"Yes?" Pullman turned back.

"Uh … I've never heard of this 'chicken festival' before. How long has it been going on?"

"Oh," said Pullman with a grin. "Me and my Grace had the idea yesterday morning. It just happened. Thanks again, sir. You won't regret this."

Roy watched the door close behind them. _I hope not._ Slowly, he sat down again. _Chicken festivals. What next?_

* * *

 **Tuesday, January 11, 2011**

* * *

"Bro, we got us a problem."

Harry Block, part owner of Block & Tackle Party Hire & Supply, frowned at his brother in law. "Elias, I do not like it when you say that."

Elias Tackle shrugged. "Sorry, dude. But a problem is what we got." Fifteen years younger, his easy-going attitude was somewhat grating on Harry. He never seemed to be able to bring himself to care about anything important, though he did carry out his duties reasonably well. Harry handled the money side of things, while Elias took care of inventory. And, if Harry was truthful with himself, Elias was a positive genius when it came to locating the best inventory at the lowest prices.

"What is the problem?" Harry peered at Elias over his glasses.

"It's the Chicken Festival thing." Elias showed Harry a sheet of paper. "We can't source enough helium to fill all their balloons. Not from our regular suppliers, anyway. That rain belt's been disrupting things so they won't be able to get enough to the city in time."

"Elias." Harry sighed heavily. "It is your job to find what we need to have, or tell me that we can't do a job. Are you telling me that we can't do the job?" His tone indicated disappointment.

Elias tilted his head slightly. "Actually … you know what, bro? Forget I said anything. I got this."

"Is this going to cost us more money?" Harry was somewhat leery of anything that cost more than it should.

"Nope." Elias grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. "I gotta go make some calls, but don't sweat it. We got this."

"If you say so, Elias." Harry went back to the bookwork. For a moment, he wondered if he should ask more questions, but then a notation popped up on his computer about an unpaid bill.

By the time he dealt with that, he'd forgotten all about the conversation with Elias.

* * *

 **Thursday, January 13, 2011**

* * *

Brockton Bay was not the best city in which to have a sudden influx of heavy rainfall. The water table, never very low to start with, was known to rise almost to street level if too much water went into the storm drain system at once. This put a lot of strain on the system, which was outmoded and in need of upgrading as it was. The overstretched and underfunded city council had, unsurprisingly, settled for merely fixing visible problems, year after year. This allowed more subtle problems, such as ongoing leaks and weakening of pipes, to worsen from neglect. In years of low rainfall, there wasn't much of a problem, as the system could handle it. However, the current downpour had stretched its diminished capabilities. Rainwater had leaked from the pipes and leached into the surrounding soil, some of which was unfortunately prone to being washed away. This could, as some people would find out, have the effect of leading to subsidence. Or worse.

Francis Garibaldi did not have the limitations of the stormwater system on his mind as he went about his morning deliveries. A tall, stout man with a permanent five o'clock shadow and male pattern baldness, Francis was the sole delivery driver for the eponymously named Garibaldi's Bakery. Unfortunately, while he worked for the bakery, he did not happen to have a stake in the business.

Garibaldi's was owned and managed by Francis' cousin Paul, who had reached his current level of success by never letting go of a dollar that he didn't have to. This was why Francis was employed as a driver rather than a full partner. It was also the reason that the delivery truck was in such poor shape. Despite its rather shaky brakes and faltering engine, Paul chose to keep it on the road rather than buy a replacement or even pay for anything more than the most superficial of repairs. But that was Cousin Paul all over.

Francis grumbled to himself as he drove. Grumbling was his main hobby these days; it cost nothing and made him feel good. Chief among his subjects was his cousin and employer. Paul might be five years older than Francis, but that shouldn't give him the right to lord it over his own flesh and blood, docking his pay for every late delivery. By rights, Francis should be allowed to buy into the business and have his own say on how it was run. But of course, Paul would never allow that.

The truck was another major point of contention. Francis had argued with Paul more than once on the subject. Its tyres were worn almost to the point of baldness, while the aforementioned brakes and engine needed a gentle hand so as not to fail at any given point during the day. The truck was so decrepit that if the police took an interest in it, they would almost certainly declare it un-roadworthy. The question—and the only reason why he wasn't flagging down the first police car he saw—was whether he'd be penalised for being the one caught driving the rattling death-trap in the first place. Which was why he chose to drive through the back streets on his deliveries, rather than take the main roads.

This particular back street was one which had been underwater for a day or so after the rain. In fact, there was still water standing in the gutters at some places. Ignoring that, he concentrated on picking his way between the pot-holes, as the suspension of the truck also needed work. Any sort of bump was likely to put his tailbone up between his shoulderblades. As the car in front passed a particular spot, water seemed to well into the pot-holes from beneath, as if a sponge had been squeezed. But he didn't notice, as he was both concentrating on his driving and relieving his stress by ranting about penny-pinching cousins and dilapidated trucks.

Thus, it was rather a surprise when the worn and cracked asphalt began to give way under his front wheels. Water, and rather a lot of it, appeared as if from nowhere and swirled across the street, getting deeper by the second. If the truck's brakes had been less worn, Francis may have stopped and reversed in time. On the other hand, had the engine had been in better condition, he might have accelerated across the crumbling section of street before it collapsed altogether. Unfortunately for him, neither one happened. What did happen was the brakes juddered as he tried to apply them, then the engine coughed asthmatically as he attempted to power forward. Francis let out a not particularly manly scream as the truck tilted head-first into the rapidly-widening hole in the road. Water covered the windshield and began to pour in through the gap in the partly-open window, soaking his left shoulder and pants. It was freezing cold, and it reeked of dead things.

Fumbling hastily with his seat belt, Francis looked around for a way out. The doors were both under water by now. He recalled reading about how it was impossible to open a car door against the water pressure unless the vehicle was also full of water. _Fuck that._ The cab was already half-full of water, and he strained back against the seat until the belt clasp finally came undone. It was pitch dark in the front of the truck by now, and he was starting to feel disoriented, with the water rising up to his chest. It didn't help that his ears felt funny with the air pressure.

 _The inspection hatch._ It was an idea born of desperation, but he latched on to it like … well, like a drowning man. The hatch was a small opening into the rear of the truck to allow the driver to check on the load without getting out of the vehicle. It wasn't designed for people to climb through, especially not people as heavily-built as Francis, but he didn't care. Bracing his feet on the dashboard, he scrabbled at the hatch. By the time he got it open, the stinking floodwaters had risen to his chest once more. He stuck his arms through first to narrow his profile, then tried to climb through himself. At first, he was impeded by loaves of bread and other examples of the baker's art, as they were equally intent on joining him in the cab. Grimly, he pushed them aside and tried again to wedge himself through the hatch. By dint of straining, some lost skin, and an adrenaline rush born of sheer blind terror, he managed it … barely. As he pulled his legs out of the hatch, the floodwaters began to encroach into the rear of the truck. It was hot and stuffy in the back of the truck, and his eardrums felt as though they were trying to meet in the middle of his head. But he knew he couldn't give up. Escape was directly over his head; he just had to reach it.

The racks and shelves on either side of the truck had never been intended as a ladder. This didn't bother Francis in the slightest, as he had long since discarded all ideas that didn't involve survival as a key point. As he scrambled upward, he felt metal bending under him. He couldn't see what he was doing so he had to literally play it by touch, feeling blindly upward for the next handhold. When a brace snapped under his foot, he blindly grabbed for whatever was there, dangling agonisingly by his arms until he managed to get another foothold. His foot splashed in water, spurring him upward once more. The air pressure was almost intolerable by now.

It came almost as a surprise to reach the door at the back of the truck. This close, he could hear hissing all the way around the seal as air forced its way out. Panting harshly from his exertions, he took a firm grip on the nearest rack and ran his free hand over the inside of the door until he found the latch. Without pausing for an instant, he twisted it to open the door. Despite being aware of the oppressive atmosphere within the truck, he was unprepared for what happened next. The door flew open at the blast of released pressure, nearly taking his fingers with it, and he was blown out through the opening like a cork from a bottle. Landing with a bone-rattling thump on the broad rear of the truck, he lay there for a moment. The air out here was cool, though just as permeated by the stink of the freshly-released floodwaters, and he sucked it in greedily. After a few moments, he sat up and looked around.

The back of the truck was about level with the surrounding roadway; that is, about a foot above the water level. The rear door stood open, with water lapping inside to the same depth. Loaves and croissants floated forlornly within, now undoubtedly ruined by their soaking. Francis decided that he couldn't give a shit about the bread. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. However, unless the truck chose to keep sinking, he was going to sit right here for a little while longer, if that was okay with the universe. He had, he decided, earned a rest.

About ten minutes later, a car slowed to a halt with a squeak of brakes. Francis looked around to see that the vehicle had stopped well short of the sinkhole. A wise decision, in his estimation. Not speaking, not even caring enough to get up, he watched as the driver got out and cautiously approached. The man looked at the truck, then at the dirty water lapping alongside the sunken vehicle, then finally at Francis himself. As he opened his mouth, Francis had a sudden flash of insight as to what was coming next. _Don't say it. Just don't._

But the newcomer was apparently unable to read minds. "So, uh, buddy," he said diffidently. "Stuck in a sinkhole, huh?"

Francis looked sourly at him. "Nope," he said. "I was havin' a swim an' this truck just plain popped up outta nowhere." It was mean of him, he knew, but the look on the guy's face was absolutely worth it.

* * *

 **Thursday Afternoon, January 13, 2011**

* * *

"A sinkhole." Roy Christner refrained from rubbing at his forehead with his fingertips, but only just barely. "The whole street, you say?"

"Near enough," Don Hammett, the Director of Public Works, stated with dour satisfaction. "It ate a whole goddamn delivery truck. So _now_ can we get some funds to fix it? It's been a thorn in our sides for years."

"That depends on how much money you want," Roy hedged. "I don't want to empty the discretionary budget over this, Don." After all, he had several months to go before the end of the financial year, and _anything_ could happen in that time. Especially in Brockton Bay.

"Let me see." Don put on a thoughtful expression, although Roy was almost certain the public works man had already calculated the costs down to a cent before ever walking into his office. "We're gonna have to drain the hole, dump in enough gravel to fill it, then cap it off with concrete. Oh, and I'll need a tar truck as well." As he spoke, he ticked his points off on his fingers.

"What?" Roy thought he felt a headache coming on. "You can't possibly put asphalt over it until the concrete sets, right?"

"Yeah, no, that's true." Don tapped his clipboard. "But I've got half a dozen other damaged road sections in the general vicinity. May as well knock 'em all out at the same time."

"When exactly were you planning on doing this?" asked Roy suspiciously. "I _know_ you can't get everything together before Saturday night."

"Well, your Chicken Festival is on Monday." Hammett almost managed to sound reasonable. "I figured that you wouldn't want us getting in their way, so I was going to authorise a couple of crews to do Sunday shifts and get it all out of the way before the crowds start gathering."

Roy nearly burst a blood vessel on the spot. "What? Like _hell!_ There's no way I'm gonna let you charge me triple time and a half to get some basic roadworks done. You'll do it on Monday. Standard rates."

"Yeah, well, this means that my road crews'll be out and about while the Festival's going on," Hammett pointed out. "You sure you want that?"

"We'll survive," Roy said, trying not to sound sulky. "Unless you're gonna tell me that the street the Festival is on also needs repairs?" His glare said _you'd better not._

"No, no, I already checked," Don assured him hastily. "That one's actually been done recently. It's got no problems at all."

"Good," Roy said bluntly. "So long as you can cover the rest of them, we'll be fine."

Don threw him a mock salute. "You're the boss."

As the door shut behind the man, Roy groaned and leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. _At least_ _ **someone**_ _thinks that around here._

* * *

 **Monday, January 17, 2011  
Coil's Base**

* * *

" … and that's the last of the details on my mercenaries," Calvert said with a grimace. "I've just sent them to your inbox." He now felt that he knew the truth of the saying 'pound of flesh closest to the heart'. Passing off his mercenaries to the PRT was the definitive statement of surrender. Without them, he only owned as much power as the PRT permitted him to have.

" _I'm opening the message now,"_ Director Piggot said. _"I see that you've tagged the names of the ones who are in the country illegally. That's good."_ Somehow, even her professional tone managed to sound smugly satisfied. This wasn't surprising. _If our positions were reversed, I'd be gloating for all I was worth._

"Yes," he confirmed unhappily. "I've also marked out the ones who have active arrest warrants in the United States." He didn't want to do this, but he suspected that Taylor Hebert would want him to, and he couldn't bank on her power ignoring it. The image of anvils falling all about him still caused him to wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

" _So I see. I'll be going through these and deciding which ones we want to pick up."_ Piggot's voice was brisk. _"So, what are your plans for making Butterfly's life better?"_

"I, uh, I was thinking that I know nothing about her," he said diffidently. "So I was going to have some people I know befriend her and find out her likes and dislikes, and work from there." Tattletale would be the best bet for that, he decided. They were around the same age, and probably had things in common. What that might be, he had no idea, but he was sure they'd find out.

" _The subtle approach. Good, I like it. You can be sure that I'll be watching. From a safe distance, of course."_ She was smiling now, he could tell. Her enjoyment of his predicament was as grating as it was obvious, and as unsurprising.

"Of course." He bit the words off. "One more thing. Do you happen to know of her current whereabouts?" Though he was tempted to make a comment to the effect that if the PRT had allowed him to keep his mercenaries, he'd be able to keep tabs on Taylor all by himself, he restrained himself. Antagonising Piggot, with the vice-grip she had on his short and curlies, could only end badly for himself.

There was no answer for a second, but he heard the rattle of computer keys. Then she came back on the line. _"She's apparently attending the National Chicken Festival with her father. Good luck. I'll talk to you again later."_

As he put the phone down again, he was gritting his teeth so hard that it hurt. Piggot had to be loving this, and he couldn't do a thing about it, and … _graaaah!_ Unfortunately, he had learned the hard way that he couldn't even work off his tensions in a 'safe' timeline. He couldn't guarantee that Butterfly's power wouldn't cause him to close the wrong timeline at the wrong time, just to fuck him over.

He took a deep breath and placed his hands flat on the desk. The tensing and twitching gradually eased off as the urge to strangle _something_ faded away. He was almost tempted to take out his pistol and put the barrel in his mouth, but for the certain knowledge that Butterfly would do _something_ to screw even that up. And if he survived, he'd still be expected to keep helping out Taylor Hebert.

 _Okay, time to get to it._ He picked up his phone and dialled Tattletale's number. _If anyone can figure out how to get on the good side of a near-omnipotent teenage girl, it's her._ The phone rang several times, and his frown deepened a notch each time. _She'd better not be ignoring me …_

Then the phone was answered. _"Hello?"_ Tattletale seemed to be breathing hard, and there was wind rushing past the phone.

"Listen carefully," he said without preamble. "I'm about to send you a photo of a person. You are to become that person's very best friend. This is not a scam. You must never harbour any ill-will toward this person. Do you understand?" Internally, he cringed at the certain knowledge that Tattletale would quickly divine his catastrophic mishaps regarding Butterfly. With any luck, she would fall off the damn dog laughing.

" _Uh, boss, slight problem. You know how we were casing that casino of Lung's for a future job?"_

He frowned. That didn't sound good. "Yes?"

* * *

 **Rooftops  
Tattletale**

* * *

Lisa hung on to Judas as he leaped across the gap between two buildings. "Well, he caught us at it!" she yelled. "Sheer bad luck! Wrong time, wrong place! And now he's chasing us!" Lung roared from behind them, and she glanced over her shoulder. The metallic form, wreathed in a heat haze, seemed to be catching up.

There was a _ping_ from her phone, and an icon popped up to show she'd received an image. _"Find that person,"_ Coil said, barely audible over the thunderous panting of the dog she was riding. _"Her name is Taylor Hebert. She'll be at the Chicken Festival. She'll help you."_

"But this is fucking _LUNG!"_ screamed Lisa. Unbidden, her thumb tapped the icon to reveal a picture … of a lanky-looking teenage girl with long curly hair and glasses. "What the fuck's she gonna do against _him?"_

" _The same thing she did to Kaiser and Hookwolf."_ His voice was firm. _"Now stop wasting time and go find her. And just remember—be_ _ **very**_ _polite."_

The call ended, leaving Lisa's mind awhirl. She'd heard of what had happened to Kaiser and Hookwolf; after all, who hadn't? _This girl did_ _ **that?**_ The part of her mind that was always analysing what was going on told her that yes, Coil was telling the truth. Also that he'd had a close encounter with Taylor Hebert's power himself, and come off a distant last. _He's serious. He wants me to be her best friend. He's terrified of her. He thinks she can beat Lung. He thinks she can beat Lung without even_ _ **trying.**_

"Guys!" she yelled. "New plan!" She pointed off to the side, where a couple of festively—if oddly-shaped—balloons could just be seen above the rooftops. "We're going to the Festival!"

"What?" bellowed Grue, who was astride Angelica with Regent behind him. "Lead Lung to a bunch of innocents? Are you _nuts?"_

"Trust me, I've got a plan!" Lisa called back. "We've gotta get over there _now!"_ She pointed again at the balloons, then nearly lost her balance and grabbed for a bone spur.

Rachel, at least, appeared to believe her. The stocky auburn girl turned Brutus and urged him at the gap that separated the building from the ones across the street. Judas, whom Lisa was riding, turned to follow, almost causing Lisa to fall. She flailed for a hold, and realised that one hand just wasn't going to cut it. At this juncture, she had the option of retaining the phone or grabbing on with both hands. She tried to do both, and felt the phone slip from her hand. Grabbing on more securely just before Judas launched himself across the gap, she looked back to see her phone come to rest just short of the guttering. _Crap. I liked that phone, too._ At that moment, a gust of hot air buoyed the stench of boiling tar to her nostrils. Clinging to her handholds, she looked down. Below, a public works truck was applying tar to some serious cracks in the road. She had no desire to fall into the open-topped truck, so she gripped Judas even more tightly and braced for the landing.

Unfortunately, the shift in balance had impaired Judas' takeoff, and she realised that she wasn't going to make the edge of the roof. Closing her eyes, she hung on for her life. The impact was crushing, but she didn't let go, even though the edge of the bone spur felt like it was slicing through her fingers. Judas dug in with his claws and clambered up the side of the building, kicking brickwork free to smash on the pavement below and causing the roadwork crew to dive for cover.

As the massive dog reached the edge of the roof and scrambled over, Lisa saw that the other three members of the team were waiting for her further up the roof. Behind her, with a scrape of claws on tiles, Lung arrived on the opposite building. He roared in triumph and flung himself forward, obviously intending to leap across the same gap and attack in full force. Lisa knew that she couldn't get away, but she urged Judas forward anyway. Scrabbling at the roof tiles, the massive dog gave it his all. Lisa looked over her shoulder, in time to see Lung reach the edge of the far roof – and just as he made a ferocious bound to cross the distance, his foot flew out from under him. With mounting astonishment she identified a tiny glinting speck, arcing into the far distance, as her phone. _He stood on it. What are the odds?_

The loss of traction was Lung's undoing. Far from the powerful leap she expected, his slip forced him to take a header into the street below. She waited for the sound of metal impacting asphalt, but instead was treated to a tremendous, if gloopy, splash. A single tendril of tar rose up above the roof edge, and splattered on the tiles. _Are you fucking_ _ **kidding**_ _me? He fell in the tar truck!_ A bubble of laughter rose up in her chest, but she suppressed it. _That's not gonna stop him._ "Guys!" she yelled. "We gotta go!"

A roar from behind her punctuated her words and by the time she reached the others, they were already moving. "We still going to the Festival?" asked Grue.

"Oh, _hell_ yeah," Lisa stated definitively. "We gotta find a girl called Taylor Hebert. She is now officially our best friend." _Because if she did that—and I'm pretty sure she did—I_ _ **love**_ _her style._

"Hey, did Lung really just fall in the tar?" Regent's voice held more glee than she'd heard from him in some time.

"Yeah," Lisa said again, laughing out loud. "But less talk, more running. Lung's gonna be seriously _pissed."_

"He was _already_ pissed," Grue pointed out, accurately. "He wanted to kill us _before_ this."

"More pissed," Lisa clarified. "Much, _much_ more pissed."

The figure that leaped on to the rooftop behind them managed to verify her words far more thorougly than any amount of normal explanation. Lung was now black from head to toe with runny, sticky tar, covering his shiny silver scales. On a normal person the tar would've been cooling and hardening, but thanks to Lung's internal combustion, it was becoming even more liquid, leaving splattery footsteps behind as he ran. If his incoherent roar was anything to go by, he was angry enough to chase them across the country and back again to get his revenge.

"We need to go faster," Grue agreed. "Definitely faster."

"Faster is good." Regent's tone managed to combine fear and amusement at the same time.

Rachel gave a sharp whistle, and the three dogs increased their pace. Not that they needed the encouragement.

* * *

 **National Chicken Festival  
Brockton Bay  
Taylor**

* * *

The sandwich smelled of fried egg, which wasn't a surprise, as that was the main ingredient. I sniffed at it, decided that it was worth a try, and took a tentative bite. Flavour filled my mouth. "Damn." I looked at it with surprise and respect.

"Good?" asked Dad, then took a bite of his. As I had, he gave his sandwich a second look, then took another bite.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "A lot better than I expected, actually." I took a second bite of mine, savouring the taste. "This is actually really good."

"Thanks," said the vendor who'd just sold them to Dad. "I use a little sage and black sauce. It really hits the taste buds, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yeah," I drawled, attacking the sandwich again. Dad and I walked a little distance while we finished our sandwiches.

"So what do you think of our father-daughter day out so far?" he asked.

I wiped my mouth with the supplied napkin before answering. "Well, if you'd asked me yesterday if I'd be having a good time at a chicken festival, I would've been really doubtful. I mean, this is kinda weird, even for a street festival." I spread my arms to illuminate my point. "There's even a guy selling pet chickens!"

"Those aren't pets," Dad corrected me gently. "Those are egg-layers. And no, I'm not going to buy one for you. They take care and attention."

"I wasn't going to ask," I told him, though my attention was momentarily stolen by a cage of baby chicks. They looked so adorably fluffy that I wanted to pick them up and cuddle them all day long. Dad probably wouldn't let me get one of those, either.

The Festival was appropriately … festive. There were pens of chickens, elaborate displays showing that eggs were much healthier than most people seemed to think, along with enormous … chicken balloons. That is, Thanksgiving-style parade balloons shaped like chickens. Plus one or two shaped like egg-cartons, which was definitely something I'd never seen before.

Here and there, stands were selling foodstuffs, mainly based around eggs rather than chickens, which I found kind of odd. Little kids were running around with their own miniature chicken balloons, in all the colours of the rainbow. And of course, people roaming the street in chicken costumes. It was definitely festive, though a little weirdly so. Other people were wandering here and there, listening to the cheerful music and looking at the chickens as if they weren't quite sure what was going on. I knew that _I_ wasn't.

Then I heard the shouts and screams at the other end of the festival, and I knew that something was going wrong. I _knew_ about shit going wrong. This was familiar territory to me. "Get behind me, Dad," I said quietly. _Okay, power. Time to do your thing. I'd be really unhappy if anyone got hurt here today._ I didn't even know if it would make a difference, but I concentrated on that thought as I stared toward the sounds of disturbance.

Whatever I expected to see, it wasn't weird dinosaur-lizard-dog … things. There were three of them, bounding one after the other down the street toward me and Dad. Riding them were four costumed figures, hanging on for dear life. To their credit, they were dodging around (and in some cases, leaping _over)_ the pedestrians in their path. However, this seemed to be mostly the dogs' doing. The riders were spending more time looking over their shoulders at something.

Shading my eyes, I saw it. An immense black figure, easily twelve feet tall, was rampaging down the middle of the street in pursuit, leaping over and through displays as it went. At its discordant roar, people scattered. I watched as it slammed into a cable holding a balloon to the ground. The impact snapped the cable off its base, but instead of pulling free, the cable wrapped around the black figure, somehow sticking to it. _Go get 'im, power!_

Probably hampered by the cable wrapped around its left leg, the figure tripped and fell out of sight. Feathers arose, along with a huge amount of clucking; the latter almost drowned out the roaring of the monster. When it rose into sight again, it was covered in even more feathers. I suppressed a giggle. _Damn, I love my power._

Not deterred in the slightest, it lunged forward once more, hampered somewhat by the cable still wrapped around its leg, and the balloon it was towing. Apparently so enraged that it didn't see the next cable, it blundered into that one too. This one snapped with enough force to wrap around its entire body. One balloon had not been sufficient to support its weight, but with the second one, this all changed. I watched with fascination as, struggling and raging, the feather-covered monster lifted clear of the ground and drifted away over the rooftops.

* * *

 **Lung**

* * *

The more he struggled with the cables, the tighter they seemed to wrap themselves around his leg and body. He tried to pull them free, but the tar on his hands was just as slippery as on the rest of him. Which was irritating, because it also seemed to be protecting the feathers that were now stuck all over him. Twisting around, he did his best to send a blast of flame at one of the ridiculous balloons that were supporting him in midair. It missed by a wide margin.

In the next instant, his faithful lieutenant Oni Lee appeared, holding tightly to one of the cables. Lung felt a surge of triumph. He would be down on the ground in moments, and then he would return to destroy all who had seen his moment of humiliation. "Burst the balloons!" he tried to shout, but his mouth was not well shaped for words at the moment.

Nonetheless, Lee seemed to get the idea. Pulling his pistol with his free hand, he aimed it at the nearest balloon and opened fire. Several small holes opened up, and the gas hissed out. Lee's body crumbled to ash as he teleported to the other balloon and pressed the barrel of the gun against it.

Far from the simple gunshot that Lung expected a moment later, the balloon erupted in a massive explosion. Shreds of charred rubber—and possibly Oni Lee—went past Lung in all directions as he was flung out of the fireball. All of the tar and feathers had been charred from his body on one side, though the balloon cables had managed to wrap themselves around him even more thoroughly than before, so that he was somehow bound hand and foot. Still, it wasn't a real problem, he told himself as he tumbled over and over through the air. He was still bulky enough to weather the impact, and once he hit the ground, he'd be able to work his way free of his bonds. One way or the other. _And then the Undersiders will pay for this._

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

The three dog-things and their riders were bearing down on me and Dad. The crowd, finally realising the danger, were scattering in all directions. Even the guy in the fried-egg sandwich stall bolted. I saw a dark stain washing out over the asphalt in front of the stall, and wondered what he'd spilt as he ran for it.

I didn't have to wait long to find out. The three dog-things were moving in a rough triangle formation, with a stocky girl wearing a Rottweiler mask on the one in front. As that one came level with the stall, its front paws went out from under it, eliciting a thunderous yip in response. The dog went over sideways, tripping the other two in the process.

All four riders flew off their mounts, landing in a pile that reminded me of the incidents with Emma, Sophia and Madison. Over and over they tumbled, until they came to a halt before me. The stocky girl, apparently dazed, was entangled with a guy in biker leathers, while under the both of them groaned a skinnier guy wearing a now somewhat less than pristine Renfaire outfit. In front of them, a girl in a skintight purple costume rolled to a stop more or less at my feet. She sat up, shaking her head groggily, then stared at me, her eyes wide.

"Ah," she said hesitantly. "You'd be Taylor Hebert, then."

I had no idea how she knew me, but I suspected it was my power at work; the tell-tales were fairly obvious. Raising my eyebrows, I gave her an appraising look. "Uh huh. Mind filling me in on what's going on here?"

* * *

 **Miss Militia**

* * *

Hannah climbed out of her Hummer and marched over to the edge of the sink-hole, her eyes taking in every detail. The heavy pump which had obviously emptied the hole of water. The dump-truck full of gravel. The loader with a bucket full of the same gravel. The cement truck alongside the hole, with damage to the control levers. The sinkhole itself, which was almost full of partly-set cement, radiated a heat that Hannah could feel from where she was.

In the middle of the drying cement was a hole about a foot across. As she watched, a fist lashed up out of the hole, smashing a chunk of cement away and widening the hole. Her weapon reformed in her hand, and she waited.

It didn't take a genius to see that Lung had come in on a ballistic arc. _He hit the truck and damaged it enough that it somehow started pouring cement, then bounced into the hole. Something stopped him from climbing out while the cement poured in. He was lucky enough to keep his head above the level of the cement till it stopped pouring._ She grinned to herself. _Hello, Butterfly._

She knew that Lung's size tended to reduce back to normal when he didn't have a powerful opponent to face. As far as she could tell, this was the case now. The cement appeared to have dried overly fast due to his heat, which would have happened before he went back to human size. _So he's in there now, and he's not trapped. He'll be out of there in minutes. And it looks like he's stronger than normal, or the cement's a lot weaker than it should be._ Did drying really fast weaken concrete? It was something she'd have to look up later.

In any case, Lung was going to be breaking free of his ad hoc prison very soon. The only flaw in the plan was that the foreman had contacted the PRT even while he was driving the hell away from the sinkhole. _And I intend to be a very big problem indeed._

The fist punched another chunk of concrete out of the hole. Then the hand took hold of the edge of the hole, and Lung heaved himself into view. He was halfway up out of the hole before he realised she was there. She wasn't sure what expression was on his masked face as he turned to face her, but she would've put money on a serious level of aggravation.

"Lung," she said levelly. Her weapon, a Brute-scale taser, was aimed right at him. Enough of these were manufactured for the PRT that she was able to duplicate them.

"Miss Militia." His voice was gravelly and strongly accented.

"You gonna surrender peacefully? Kind of got you cold, here." She gestured slightly with the taser.

"I am due for the Birdcage. I will not surrender for that." With a burst of explosive power, he came around with a chunk of cement the size of her head in his hand. His arm came up, but before he could complete the throwing motion, she fired her weapon. The two wires shot out and lodged into his ribs. An instant later, electricity crackled through the Asian crime lord, making him convulse and jerk spasmodically. The piece of cement rolled to her feet and stopped.

She let up on the taser. A second later, his eyes opened and he ripped out the wires, yanking hard on them. She released the weapon, letting it dissolve into its green-black energy. The taser reformed in her hand a moment later, and she shot him again.

It took three shots to put him down for good. She hit the trigger a few more times, watching his body jolt with the current, but he was out cold. She could tell from the movement of his chest that he was still breathing. Carefully, she walked a little closer, intrigued by something that she could see. Reaching up, she pressed the button on her lapel radio. "Miss Militia here. I've got Lung, over."

" _Control calling Miss Militia. Please say again, over."_ The voice sounded a little incredulous.

"Miss Militia here. The tip-off was on the money. Lung is down. You can send someone to pick him up. Bring plenty of containment foam, over."

" _I copy Lung is down. Sending pickup. Plenty of confoam, roger."_

"And one other thing." Hannah leaned in close to verify what she thought she'd seen. There was a streak of a familiar-smelling black substance on his mask, with a tiny charred stub of a feather stuck to it. "Put this down as a verified Butterfly incident, over."

A new voice broke in brusquely. _"Director Piggot here. Can you definitively confirm Butterfly involvement, over?"_

Hannah smiled behind her scarf. "Affirmative. From the evidence, he was tarred and feathered before being stuck up to his neck in cement. Over."

There was a burst of static, which she interpreted as a sigh. _"Understood. I'll write it up accordingly. Piggot, out."_

"Roger and out." Hannah settled down to wait. Occasionally, she snickered. _Tarred and feathered. God, I hope someone got footage of that._

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

"Hey, this is really good." Tattletale took another bite of the fried-egg sandwich.

"I know, right?" I petted the cheeping chick that I had cradled in my cupped hand while I thought about what to say next. While I wasn't quite sure _how_ the cage had busted open, I'd found the chick perching on my shoe and looking up at me forlornly, so of course I'd had to rescue it … permanently. I just had to get Dad on board with that.

Off to the side, Dad and Grue were helping the stall owner scrub up the spilled cooking oil. It turned out that he'd opened a ten-gallon container of the stuff only seconds before the Undersiders showed up. Most of it was spread across the asphalt, but the steady scrubbing seemed to be doing the trick.

Regent, according to Tattletale, had tried to be a douche when he first got up. He had powers that affected peoples' nervous systems, which he'd tried to use on me. I'd wondered why he was thrashing on the ground like an idiot. Apparently his taser-sceptre thing had been damaged in the fall and had short-circuited at the appropriate moment. Now, after being slapped upside the head by both Tattletale and Grue, he just sat and stared sulkily at the ground, shaking his head. Occasionally, he looked warily up at me and muttered, "Bullshit. Just bullshit."

Bitch, on the other hand, hadn't tried anything like that. Once Tattletale explained the situation, she seemed to be happy to sit with her three dogs, which by some weird power thing had reduced back to normal size by now. The dogs also seemed to like fried-egg sandwiches.

"Let me see if I've got this right," I said at last. "Your boss, who's a supervillain whom I've never heard of, told you to find me and be my very best friend." _Peep-peep,_ went the chick.

"Exactly," she said earnestly. "He was clear that this wasn't a scam. This is my job from now on. But he's not a supervillain any more. He's given it up."

I frowned. "That's the bit I don't get. Why's he given it up? Why tell you to be my friend? I don't even _know_ him. I barely know _you."_ Though having a teenage villain as a best friend seemed to be about par for the course for me, these days.

She chuckled. "He didn't say, but I can guess. He's the sort of guy who likes to have his finger in every pie. When he heard about you, he probably thought he could get ahold of you and make you use your power for his benefit." I thought I heard an echo of something darker in her voice. _Is that what happened to her?_

"So you say." I shrugged. "I haven't heard anything about this until now." The chick peeped in agreement. I petted it some more. It really was amazingly fluffy.

Tattletale's chuckle morphed into a smirk. "You wouldn't. He never even got close. You remember seeing a freak accident with a bunch of anvils on the news, in midtown?"

"Uh, yeah." I gave her a dubious look. "I don't see the significance. I wasn't even there."

Her smirk widened considerably. "You didn't have to be. He'd tried and failed, so he was gonna leave town. But your power decided it wanted him to work for you. So, anvils. He didn't want to die, so hi, I'm your new best friend. Especially after what happened to Lung. That was _epic."_

Most of her rapid-fire explanation went over my head, but I figured I'd extract the details from her at my leisure. "That shit just happens these days. I don't _make_ it do anything. Though I did wonder what that explosion was all about. I thought those balloons were all helium."

Tattletale's expression was composed of pure, distilled smugness. "Someone skimped on the cost and filled one of the balloons with hydrogen. I'd say _what a coincidence_ but I don't believe in them any more. Not since meeting you."

That explained a lot. "Wow. Okay, I'm not surprised. I'm really not."

"Nope, it – oh, shit." The smile dropped off Tattletale's face.

I looked around and saw more costumed figures. In this case, it was Armsmaster, flanked by Assault and Battery. They were striding forward as if they owned the place, and Armsmaster already had his halberd out. With some difficulty, I suppressed a squee of hero-worship.

"Hello, Miss Hebert." Armsmaster gave me a nod. "Are you unhurt?"

This was the second time someone in a costume had known me by name. I decided to roll with it. "Hi, Armsmaster." I waved at him with my free hand. "Yeah, I'm fine. You should really try one of those fried-egg sandwiches. They're very good." _Or you can just autograph one for me._

"They really are," Tattletale confirmed, looking from me to the heroes as if trying to figure out what was going on here.

"That's nice." His voice disinterested, he turned his attention to the teenage villains. Grue was looking our way, Regent and Bitch were on their feet, and all four were now tense, ready for action. "We'll be taking the Undersiders into custody now."

I had a split-second decision to make, and I didn't even take that long. "I'd really rather you didn't."

He froze in the act of pointing his halberd at Tattletale. "I beg your pardon?"

I spread my free hand. "I think I spoke clearly enough. I'd really rather you didn't take them into custody."

"Are you certain?" He carefully put the butt-end of his halberd back on the ground again. "They're criminals."

"Not any more." My voice was firm. "You can go and help someone else, now. They're with me."

His gauntleted hand came up to cover his visor. "Of course they are."

Behind him, Assault seemed to suffer an attack of the giggles, not helped by Battery surreptitiously elbowing him in the ribs. I had no idea what that was about.

Armsmaster waited for a long moment, but I folded my arms as best I could and tapped my foot. He stomped on through, smacking his halberd against the ground as if he had a personal grudge against it. Assault and Battery followed on. As the red-clad hero passed me, he offered a quick high-five; bemused, I returned it. The chick cheeped at him, causing a momentary double-take.

Just as Armsmaster reached Dad and Grue, he turned his head to look back at Tattletale and the other two, his mouth set in a grim line. And then, of course, he stepped on the only patch of oil that had yet to be cleaned up. I watched in slow motion as his foot skidded out from under him, and he ended up in a clattering ignominious heap on the ground. To his credit, he neither yelped nor lost his grip on his halberd. As Battery rushed forward to help him up, Assault lost it altogether and ended up leaning against the food stand, shaking with near-hysterical laughter.

Tattletale stared from me to where Battery was assisting Armsmaster to his feet. "What are you, Taylor Hebert?" she asked incredulously. "What the hell _are_ you?"

"Me?" I asked. "I'm normal. Ask anyone."

The response came from her, Grue, Regent, Assault and even Bitch; if I didn't know better, I would've sworn that they'd rehearsed it.

"BULLSHIT!"

* * *

End of Part Ten


	11. Chapter 11

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

 _[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]_

 _[A/N 2: Allusions that may be made to fictional or non-fictional persons are intended solely as parodies of those persons.]_

* * *

Part Eleven: Things Get Silly

* * *

 **The Boardwalk  
Monday, 17 January 2011  
Taylor**

* * *

The Boardwalk was busy for a weekday. People strolled along, stopping at the kiosks and looking out at the Protectorate HQ under its iridescent force field. Others cruised past on rollerblades, moving with an ease and grace that I didn't think I could manage. Down on the sand, a bunch of guys and girls in their twenties were throwing frisbees back and forth in some sort of complicated, noisy game. In the middle of all this, nobody seemed to notice that I was strolling along with a bunch of super-powered villains, even if they were out of costume at the moment. Or that I had a baby chick on my free hand. Chick Norris, as Dad had dubbed him, seemed to be looking around with interest at everything. I hoped he wouldn't take it into his head to run off somewhere.

" … okay, I get it that you're lucky." Brian leaned against the rail and looked intently at me. "But how does this translate to our boss telling us that we're working for you now?"

I pretended to be engrossed in the soft-serve ice-cream I was eating until I could come up with an answer, although in truth I was lost in admiration for the way his biceps strained against his T-shirt sleeve as he folded his arms. _Did you set this up for me, power? If so,_ _ **nice**_ _._

All of the Undersiders had unmasked and de-costumed for the stroll along the Boardwalk. Lisa—Tattletale—had led the way, turning from a smug blonde in a purple catsuit into a smug blonde in stylish but casual clothing. Grue, the imposing figure in the motorcycle leathers and skull helmet, was a tall, well-built black guy with his hair in cornrows, and muscles on his muscles. Alec—Regent—had gone from Renfaire tights and a coronet to jeans and a t-shirt without losing his careless attitude. He was still keeping his distance from me, though. And Bitch—I'd been assured that was her cape name—hadn't really changed her costume, such as it was. She'd basically discarded her dollar-store dog mask, but that was it. Of the four of them, she seemed to be sticking the closest to me as her dogs trotted alongside her. This was possibly because her real name—Rachel Lindt—was already known to the public, so she couldn't go out without the chance of someone recognizing her and causing problems. I'd stood up to Armsmaster on her behalf, so she was treating me as the person in charge. Her choice of ice-cream was vanilla, of which she had two cones. One was for her, and the other was being shared between her dogs.

To be honest, I hadn't known that dogs could eat ice-cream. As an experiment, I offered my cone to Chick Norris. He snapped up a tiny beak-full and swallowed it, then went for another one. _Well, that answers that. Chickens eat ice-cream too._

I wasn't quite sure how to answer Brian's question; it was just that I now seemed to have four teenage supervillains at my beck and call. Or rather, _ex-_ villains. Which, given everything _else_ that had happened, still wasn't the strangest part of my day.

"Can I tell him?" asked Lisa, the ever-present smug grin spreading across her face once more. She seemed to be acclimatizing to the new situation very rapidly indeed. Not to mention deriving immense amusement from it. "Please?"

"Sure," I agreed, plonking myself down on a seat where I could enjoy the eye candy without being too obvious about it. Norris went _cheep-cheep,_ so I lowered my hand a little. He jumped down to explore the seat—and decorate it with his leavings. Rachel watched him carefully, then sat down on the other end of the same seat. One of her dogs sniffed at my fingers, then licked them. I scratched it behind its one ear; a back leg thumped against the wooden boards in response. "What's this one's name?"

"Angelica," Rachel said immediately. "She likes you." She had an odd habit of ducking her head when she spoke to me, as if she were looking for my permission first. I hadn't thought I was _that_ scary, but then again, Lung _had_ been carried away by balloons.

"Okay," began Lisa cheerfully. "Gonna need someone's phone, though. Mine got lost." When I looked at her, she shrugged. "I dropped it, Lung stood on it and slipped, and ended up covered in tar."

I'd heard of weirder things. Hell, I'd _seen_ weirder things. Talking of which, the chick was now at Rachel's end of the bench, cheeping at her. The look on her face as she stared at him was just a little amusing. "Go ahead," I said cheerfully. "I'll be wanting him back, though." With the care and attention that she showed her dogs, I had no doubt that she would treat my new pet the same way.

"Okay," she said, a little uncertainly. She fed the last of the cone to another one of her dogs—he crunched it up cheerfully—then put her hand down. Chick Norris promptly hopped on to it. Angelica turned her head in that direction, but a gesture from Rachel had her lying down with her head on her front paws.

"Wow," I said admiringly. "Any chance you can teach me how to do that? With Angelica, I mean."

Rachel looked at me, surprise showing in her eyes.

I blinked. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," she said hastily. "No, no, no. I just thought you'd know how to do that sort of thing already."

Now I was the one taken aback. "Uh, why would you think that? You're the one who knows dogs, not me."

"But …" Rachel searched for words. "You beat Kaiser and Lung and Coil. You're more powerful than the rest of us put together."

"Still doesn't mean I know the first thing about dogs," I pointed out. "Can you teach me?"

"If you want to learn, I can teach you," she said. "It'll mean spending time feeding dogs and picking up their shit."

I grinned. "I guess I can handle that." With that in mind, I noted that the chick hadn't left any 'souvenirs' on my hand or Rachel's. Instead, he'd chosen the seat between us to use as his toilet. _My power is awesome._

A little reluctantly, Brian dug out his phone and handed it to Lisa. She tapped in the unlock code without any hesitation, which made me wonder if they regularly shared such things, or if she'd used some sort of power to figure it out. She'd already showed an unusual level of intuition, so I decided to go with the latter idea for the moment.

Lisa fiddled with Brian's phone for a moment, then showed us all a picture. I recognized it as the one that had been on the news, with all the anvils. "This is what happened to the boss. He's an asshole who was using us for our powers. He tried to set it up so he could use you for _your_ power, but your power basically laughed out loud and smacked him upside the head. So he tried to leave town, and your power did that. With him in the middle." She handed the phone back to Brian.

He stared at the picture. "Holy shit. I can see how that would make an impression." Lifting his gaze from the phone, he looked at me. "So from that he decided that you were calling the shots?"

Lisa answered for me. "There were a couple of other factors. Icing on the cake, as it were." She looked incredibly smug. "He's basically shut down ninety percent of his operations. The PRT has full control of him, now. He's focusing all of his abilities on making you happy, and part of that involves telling me to be your best friend. And the other guys come along with me. If you're okay with that, of course."

"Huh." So it seemed I now had a bunch of ex-villains as minions. "Well, you know I'd be happiest if you didn't commit crimes any more. Just saying." Well, it was worth a try.

Lisa stretched, catlike. If her expression had been any more self-satisfied, I would've begun to wonder if she was on drugs. "I have absolutely no problem with that. I was only doing it because the asshole had a gun to my head. Brian?"

From his serious expression, Brian was less thrilled with the outcome than Lisa. "I've got family problems. He was helping me with them. So now I'm without any way to do that, unless I go back into business for myself."

"Okay, let's put a pin in that for now." I turned to Alec. "What about you? Any problems with going straight?"

He rolled his eyes as only a teenager can do. "What can I say? I was just looking for the toughest gang around to attach myself to. I guess that's you?" The question was lackluster at best. I got the impression that he rarely showed strong emotion over anything. Even the caramel swirl soft serve cone he was eating. Which was blasphemy; caramel swirl deserved to be treated with the utmost respect.

"No, that's my power," I corrected him. "If I like you, my power won't let anything happen to you that would make me unhappy. And I guess it's already decided that it likes you, seeing what happened to Lung for wanting to kill you." I gave him a bright smile, then turned to the last member of the band. "Rachel, any thoughts?"

Almost guiltily, she moved the hand holding the chick away from her face, where she'd been rubbing her cheek against the little peeping creature's fluffy down. "Uh, I want to keep my dogs safe and be left alone." Leaning down, she let her dogs finish off her second cone so that she had both hands free for Norris.

"Which, up till now, wasn't easy," Lisa put in. "She's got murder charges against her." She crossed her arms. "Trigger event related, but they weren't willing to listen then and they aren't now."

"Oh, really?" I grinned at Lisa and held out my hand for the phone. "Gimme. Lisa, what's Director Piggot's direct number?"

Brian's eyes widened, and Alec managed to look a little startled. Lisa laughed out loud. Only Rachel kept her calm as Lisa rattled off the number, I tapped it into the phone.

The phone began to ring; I tapped the 'speaker' icon and held the phone up in front of me. After a few rings, the Director answered, her tone intense. _"Who is this and how did you get this number?"_

"It's just me," I answered lightly. "Taylor Hebert. I've got a couple of favors to ask. If that's okay with you." As I spoke, I watched the faces of the others. Lisa had her hands clasped over her mouth, but I could see her eyes dancing with repressed laughter. Brian was staring with blank astonishment, and Alec seemed to be wondering what the hell I was doing. Rachel was just watching.

" _Ah, Miss Hebert."_ The Director cleared her throat. _"I apologize for my abrupt tone. Will you be using this number from now on?"_ She didn't sound worried, just … cautious.

"I'm not sure. I'll take care to let you know what number I do end up with. But I didn't call about that. I wanted to talk to you about the Undersiders." I leaned back on the bench, still a little surprised at myself for being able to talk so calmly to someone in a position of power.

" _Yes, I was just reading Armsmaster's report. Apparently they are now under your protection, despite being villains."_ Her tone was carefully non-judgmental; maybe she'd heard about Armsmaster's pratfall. _"You're certain this is the best course of action?"_

"Sure." Even though I knew she couldn't see it, I shrugged. "They're my age, or close enough. And I've already asked them not to do any more crime. But apparently there's a few complications." By now, Lisa was leaning against the rail, heaving with silent laughter. Brian and Alec were both regarding me with stares of horrified fascination, only varying in degree. Rachel stroked the chick, which cheeped at her.

If Director Piggot's voice had been bland before, it was doubly so now. _"I'm listening."_

"Okay then." I took a moment to figure out what I wanted to say. "Grue says that he's got family problems. Would you mind getting the full details from Coil, then somehow fix this for him, please?" Which was probably something that _nobody_ had ever said to Director Piggot before, now that I came to think about it.

" _Grue … family problems … fix them …"_ The Director paused. _"Understood. Was that all?"_ I was no good at reading meaning from tone, but even I could tell that she really, really wanted that to be all. Unfortunately, luck wasn't on her side.

"Actually, no, there's one other thing." I looked at Rachel; the muscular girl's attention sharpened. "Rachel Lindt just wants to be left alone to take care of her dogs. I'd like that to happen, please."

"And I want the other dogs," Rachel said suddenly. Her hands, now curved protectively around Chick Norris, never stopped her careful stroking of his soft yellow down.

" _Hm."_ The Director sounded less than happy. _"You are aware that Ms Lindt has pending murder charges against her name?"_ From the tone of her voice, she wasn't saying yes or no, just making me aware of the fact.

"Yes," I said. "But isn't it true that trigger related events get a pass?" I didn't know whether it was or not, but that seemed to be the context from Lisa's statement.

" _Not_ _ **officially,**_ _"_ the Director said reluctantly, _"but situations like that are generally taken into consideration."_

"Well, from what I understand, they weren't," I said. "I was hoping that you could give the case a fresh appraisal and see what you think about it." I cleared my throat. "Excuse me a moment. Rachel, what do you mean by 'the other dogs'?"

"I mean strays." Rachel's expression darkened. "And the dogs Hookwolf and his asshole Empire buddies have been using in dog fights. All the dogs. Let me take care of 'em and leave me alone, and I'll be happy." Norris cheeped at her and she stroked him again. They were definitely bonding.

" _I see."_ There was a distinct pause from the Director's end of the call. _"I can't guarantee anything—it's not in my power to issue blanket pardons—but I will definitely make some calls and see what I can do. In the meantime, by my order, the Protectorate and PRT will be leaving Miss Lindt and her friends alone. Is that satisfactory?"_ I had to hand it to her; she was either totally resigned to the current situation, or she was a really good actor. Of course, my power _had_ screwed over the Empire Eighty-Eight and the ABB, so it could've been a lot worse for her.

"It sounds good to me," I agreed. "What about the dogs?" I could tell Rachel wasn't about to let that aspect go. Nor did I expect her to.

" _There … we have more of a problem."_ Director Piggot sighed. _"Any dogs currently in your possession, you may keep, of course. And we can turn over Hookwolf's dogs to you. But there are more strays in the city than you could conceivably feed for more than a few days. The PRT does have a discretionary budget, but there are limits to how much of it I can justify putting toward feeding stray dogs. Also, the more dogs you take off the streets and bring back to health, the more they'll be breeding, using up the funds faster than ever. I'm afraid the majority will have to be euthanized, just to make room for the rest."_

"But you said -!" began Rachel, but I shook my head. She stopped speaking, looking at me as though I was about to pull the answer from mid-air.

"Let her finish," I said. "Director, you were about to propose a solution?"

" _A stopgap, at best,"_ Director Piggot said tiredly. _"Every dog you take in, every dog you've already got, has to be spayed or neutered. Unless you're so good you can stop them from breeding as well?"_

Rachel grimaced. "I don't—I've never -"

I decided to step in. "Rachel, you've never had to deal with numbers on this scale. In some cities, they've got about one stray dog for every human. Even if Brockton Bay had just a third of that, that's a hundred thousand dogs. If it cost a dollar to feed a dog for a day, you'd go through a million dollars in less than two weeks. And that's if you de-sex the dogs as fast as you get them. If you don't, the numbers will just keep going up."

It looked like Rachel was getting it. "But even if I do, dogs will starve. I won't have the money to feed them." She didn't like that, not at all.

"Director," I said. "How about if Rachel trains dogs for the military and the police? Drug sniffers, explosives sniffers? Service dogs for the blind and deaf? She could do a better job than anyone else, I bet." I didn't know how much that sort of thing paid, but I was certain it wasn't cheap.

" _That's a start,"_ Director Piggot allowed. _"Once you were up and running, it would make for a good income stream. But before that happens, you're going to have a huge financial hump to overcome. With city funds, and even with PRT assistance, I'm afraid there's going to be a considerable shortfall."_

"Not necessarily." Lisa still had tearmarks on her face from laughing so hard, and the grin seemed to be a permanent fixture, but at least she was able to talk now. "Tattletale here. Director, what about Coil's funds? I know he's got eight or nine figures lying around. I've been through his books enough times."

" _Tattletale, you should know well enough that the results of criminal enterprises are routinely seized,"_ the Director said sternly. _"The majority of Coil's ill-gotten gains have already been frozen, awaiting transferal."_

I cleared my throat. "Uh, Director Piggot? I just wanted to point out that without me and my power, you wouldn't _have_ those funds. Or Coil."

"Or Kaiser, or Lung," added Lisa in a mischievous tone. "In fact, you might just say the PRT owes Taylor a huge debt of gratitude. And cutting loose fifty or sixty million to help out the stray dog problem is cheap at the price. Especially since that money isn't actually yours yet."

When the Director spoke next, I imagined her rubbing the bridge of her nose. _"Very well. I'll set the wheels in motion. I suggest you locate a property where you can work from. You're about to become the custodian for a great many dogs."_

"Good," said Rachel bluntly. That seemed to end the conversation, as far as she was concerned.

"What she means is, thank you," I said hastily. I was fully aware that the existence of my power was the only thing keeping Piggot from ending the conversation on a much nastier tone, but there was no reason to be impolite about it. "And thank you from me, too."

" _You're welcome, Miss Hebert,"_ the Director said pointedly. _"Was there anything else? I have calls to make."_

"Actually, yeah," Lisa said. "Now you've got Coil's nuts in a vice, feel free to use his powers to make your job easier, especially where it comes to making Taylor happier. It's about time the asshole put them to honest use."

" _I'll take that under advisement, Tattletale,"_ Piggot said, just a little curtly. _"Good day."_ A moment later, she ended the call.

"Wow," I said to Lisa as I handed Brian back his phone. "You really like yanking her chain, don't you?"

She smirked. "Well, ex-villain here. Also, it's kinda my nature. So, what did you want to do? We could go check out the Market. Or catch a movie. My treat."

Alec let out a really fake-sounding yawn. Either he was bad at it, or he just wasn't trying. I suspected the answer was 'yes'. "Or we could go back to the base. I'm missing quality first-person shooter time, here." He caught the look that Brian and Lisa shot him and spread his hands. "What? Lisa's the cool gal-pal, Brian's the hunky guy she can drool over when she thinks nobody's looking, Rachel's the … uh …"

"The one who'll punch out people who annoy her." Rachel had Chick Norris perching on her shoulder now, and was angling her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to enjoy it there. "Starting with you."

"Ah, yeah." Alec cleared his throat and moved on. "I mean, we've _got_ everyone here we need to keep Her Almightiness Queen Taylor amused. What can I do that anybody else can't do better?" He stood up, and a frisbee hit the ice-cream he was holding, spraying him with the contents of the cone. All he could do was stand there blinking, holding the remains of the cone, his face painted in caramel and vanilla ice-cream. The frisbee rebounded off a light-pole and landed on top of his head, balancing there like a silly hat.

"Well, it _looks_ like you've been chosen for the role of slapstick victim." Lisa, totally free of any such coating despite having been sitting right next to him, eyed him with amusement. "Maybe next time you don't say mean things about Taylor?"

Brian picked up the frisbee from Alec's head and sent it zipping down to the group on the sand. "Is it bad that I'm not sure if I should go down there and beat up the guy who threw it, or shake his hand?"

"What the fuck?" Alec tried to wipe his eyes clear with the back of his hand. Once he'd managed that, he glared at me. "Do you fucking _mind?"_

I gave him a level stare. "What part of 'not under my conscious control' did you have trouble understanding, genius?" I'd been a bit irritated and embarrassed before the frisbee covered him with his own ice-cream. I mean, _yes,_ I was kind of ogling Brian, but he didn't have to point it out like that. Also, referring to me as 'Her Almightiness' was just rude. Especially when I'd been trying to be _polite_ , dammit!

"Alec." Lisa's voice was calm and controlled. "Apologize." Standing, she backed carefully away from him. "I suggest doing it quickly."

"What? Why the fuck should I? She hit my ice-cream with a fucking _frisbee._ I was _enjoying_ that ice-cream."

Brian stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "She didn't. A guy down there threw it, and missed where he was aiming. _Look around._ There's a million things that could be about to fuck you up if you keep pissing her off. I'm pretty sure that the frisbee was just the warning shot." He fiddled with his phone. _"Look._ This shit happened when she wasn't even _aware_ of Coil."

Alec looked at the photo, the one with the anvils. Finally, realization began to work its way through the natural irritation. "Oh."

"Pretty sure that 'oh' isn't gonna cut it in the apology stakes," Lisa murmured through half-closed lips. "Try harder."

"Um." He turned to me. "I … don't know how to apologize. I've never really done it much. Or ever."

"And isn't _that_ the truth," muttered Lisa, almost under her breath.

"Not helping, Lisa," murmured Brian. "Go on, Alec. You can do it."

Alec tried to look in a dozen different directions, probably to try to avoid whatever doom was bearing down on him. "Um, I …" He paused. "What the _hell?"_ He stared, pointing over my shoulder.

I rolled my eyes. "Funny. The 'look behind you' gag was old when my _dad_ was a kid."

"Uh, no." Lisa spoke carefully. "It's not a gag."

Slowly, I turned to look.

* * *

 **Fourteen Days Earlier  
January 3, 2011  
8:31 AM**

* * *

Detective Larry Calhoun, BBPD, lay slumped up against a set of steps alongside a dented garbage can, pretending to swig from the bottle in his hand. The liquid sloshing inside was only cold tea; the whiskey from the bottle had been carefully poured over his clothing to give him an authentic odor. He'd been wearing the same clothing for a week now, and would happily have killed for a shower, or at least a breath mint. But Larry was a professional; he'd do the job and he'd see it through to the end. Fortunately for his sanity—and sense of smell—the end was in sight.

Drugs were a significant problem in Brockton Bay. Three separate gangs in the city either bought or manufactured product, which they then sold on to their customer base. For the Empire Eighty-Eight, it was a relatively low-end part of their profit margin, although quite a bit of weed and oxy found its way to the rank and file. The ABB was far more into it, with white powders of varying types and levels of potency funneling into the city via their Far Eastern contacts, then spreading out on to the streets. The Archer's Bridge Merchants, otherwise considered a minor group, almost equaled the ABB's volume despite being a smaller operation all round; mainly because they were wholly invested in drug selling and use, with hardly any other organized crime on their books. This wasn't to say they didn't _commit_ crimes, just that they weren't particularly organized about it. Also unlike the ABB, the Merchants largely imported the ingredients rather than the finished product.

Recently, a minor scuffle on the streets had led to the arrest of one of the Merchant dealers. As soon as pressure was applied, he'd folded and flipped on one of the mid-level suppliers, a guy known for some reason as 'the Russian'. The Russian, a real thug, was a suspect in several murders, including that of a reporter. Unfortunately, there was no hard evidence to link him to any of them. He was also thought to be responsible for a lot of ingredients coming into the city; to bust him would severely hamper the Merchants' operations for at least a while. With the dealer as their star witness, they'd arrested the Russian, only to discover the dealer's memory of events beginning to prove less than reliable. While this was almost certainly due to habitual drug use rather than any sort of deception, it was likely to cause the DA problems in court unless they could bring in something more solid. 'Solid', in this case, being evidence toward the half-dozen homicides for which the Russian was a strong suspect. Moving the ingredients for drugs was worth a little jail time, but if they could pin the killings on him, they could put him away _forever._

The BBPD had held off on charging the Russian for as long as possible, but now they had a high-powered lawyer demanding that they respect his client's civil rights. Accordingly, they had a limited amount of time to either locate some hard evidence or grab someone who could actually put forth a credible testimony before the Russian walked. If he got to walk, he was going to vanish.

The 'someone' they'd settled on was a guy called Frederickson, the Russian's second in command. As far as Larry knew, Frederickson had no idea his boss was in custody. If their information was right, he'd know everything his boss knew, and had more to lose. If they could get him to testify in return for a reduced sentence, they could roll up the entire operation like a cheap carpet. But first, of course, they needed to get the guy into a nice quiet interrogation cell where they could start applying the thumbscrews.

Which was where Larry came in.

Larry was one of several undercover officers scattered about the area. They knew Frederickson was staying somewhere in the vicinity and they'd all seen pictures of him. All he had to do was pop his head up and the trap would snap shut. Or at least, that was the plan. In Larry's experience, the more complicated the plan, the more likely that some unexpected factor would screw everything up. Or, as he put it: "Murphy's an asshole that way."

He moved a little, trying to get comfortable. Under cover of taking another 'swig', he keyed the radio microphone hidden inside his dirty collar. "Calhoun, here. No sign of him yet." When he got home, he decided, he was gonna _burn_ these clothes. And scrub off the entire top layer of his skin.

" _Brandon to Control,"_ he heard over the earpiece. _"I got nada."_ That was Joe, half a block away, spray-painting slogans on a convenient brick wall.

" _Francesca, here."_ Larry sat up just a little at the excitement in Kelly's voice. _"He's here. I say again, target is in sight. I've got eyes on him. Coming down towards you, Calhoun."_ Kelly Francesca was younger and pushier than Larry, but she was a sharp operator and knew her beans. If she said she was looking at Frederickson _,_ then she was looking at him.

"I copy eyes on target, Francesca," Larry replied, holding the bottle in front of his face. "Everyone, you know the drill. Don't spook the asshole before we can grab him. This one's for all the marbles, guys." Turning his head casually, he scanned down the street toward where Kelly was situated. As the acknowledgments came in over the radio, he finally spotted their target.

Some would've said that Frederickson was running to fat. In Larry's opinion, he'd run straight past 'fat' and barreled headlong into 'obese'. Despite that, he was reportedly vain about his appearance. This wasn't hard to verify; the man wore an obvious hairpiece, and his spray-on tan had a distinctively orange cast to it. He also had the stubbiest fingers Larry had ever seen on a grown man. Tiny, piggy eyes scanned the surrounding area suspiciously before returning to the phone that Frederickson was tapping away on. _Probably trying to get in contact with the Russian. That phone alone'll be worth a mint in saved data._

"Okay," Larry said quietly, faking another swallow from his bottle. "Calhoun, here. Start closing in, on the quiet. If he comes past me, I'll go for a take-down. Don't go overt unless he makes us."

Again, the acknowledgments came back. Kelly, in her guise as a bag lady, came into sight behind Frederickson, trundling her shopping cart down the road in his wake. Larry couldn't see the other cops on the stakeout, but he knew they'd also be moving to intercept.

Up until now, they'd been lucky as far as traffic went. It was still relatively early in the morning—the concrete he was lying on was fucking _freezing—_ so not many vehicles had come past to obscure his line of sight. But this changed as a sedan cruised past, the driver drinking from a cardboard coffee cup. Larry's nerves were so supercharged that he even heard the soft _thud_ as the car driver tossed the almost-empty cup— _musta gone cold—_ out into the street. _That's littering, asshole._ But Frederickson was his target, so he didn't turn his head to look. The car engine was quickly subsumed by the motor of a truck, coming the other direction. From the sound of it, garbage collection was late in this neighborhood.

This time, he actually took a drink of the cold tea, just in case Frederickson was alert enough to spot if he was faking. At the same time, he scanned his target and flexed his leg muscles. The last thing he wanted was to get a cramp while trying to tackle this asshole. Frederickson didn't _look_ as though he was packing, but there was a reason frisking was done with the hands and not the eyes. His clothing, except around his expansive belly, was loose enough to hide anything short of a forty millimeter grenade launcher.

"Going for take-down in ten, over," Larry murmured into the radio, then began to clamber to his feet. As Frederickson drew level, Larry gestured with his bottle. "Hey, buddy," he slurred, keeping in character. "Spare ten bucks?"

Just as Larry had planned, Frederickson ignored him. _Three steps, tackle, take-down._ He had it outlined in his head. But as he took the first step, a cramp twinged in his leg and he stumbled slightly. This was fine; it was even to be expected. However, he put his hand on the trash can to steady himself, and the lid slid half-off with a grating noise, drawing Frederickson's attention. Even then Larry could've carried it through, but for the squalling cat that erupted from the trash can, right into his face. Startled, he overbalanced and fell heavily to the ground. The bottle flew from his hand and shattered on the pavement as the cat bolted off down the street. Staring at the ground, Larry realized the microphone had come loose from inside his shirt and was now lying on the dirty concrete in front of him. The look on Frederickson's face showed that he'd seen it, too. _Shit. I'm busted_.

Larry began to struggle to his feet again, cursing the dumbass cat that had been hiding in the trash can, but there was nothing for it. Frederickson had obviously connected the dots and was now lumbering off down the sidewalk. Winded as he was, Larry still figured he could catch the guy with relative ease. _So long as the asshole doesn't have a heart attack on me first._ Still, it was a good idea to call it in.

"Calhoun," he wheezed as he clutched at the mic. "Target made me. In pursuit."

" _Francesca. On your six, thirty seconds."_ Kelly was a fast runner, but even thirty seconds could be the difference between success and failure. He pushed his non-responsive legs into action. Frederickson was ten yards away, and swerving to cross the road. Beyond the fat man, the garbage truck was drawing closer. _If he gets across the road and out of sight … no, Kelly'll still have eyes on him._ Pride drove him on anyway. He was going to be ribbed enough for falling over; if someone else made the collar, he'd _never_ live it down. "Frederickson!" he bellowed, pulling out his badge. "BBPD! You're under arrest!" _Not that anyone ever stopped when I said that …_

Just for a moment, Frederickson looked around. In that instant, his foot came down on the litterer's discarded coffee cup, which had miraculously landed upright. It crumpled underfoot, the liquid spilling out and adding just enough lubrication that Frederickson's foot slid sideways in front of him. Inevitably Frederickson tripped and fell sideways, right into the path of the garbage truck.

"Shit, no!" bellowed Larry, lunging forward. He was too far away to reach the fat man. Too far away to do anything. _If he gets killed now …_

There was a massive squealing of brakes, showing the driver was on the ball. The truck swerved sideways across the street, the front tires narrowly missing Frederickson's head. Moments later, there was a massive CRUNCH as the truck hit a skinny pole that seemed to be supporting secondary electricity lines. The pole lurched and a wire twanged loudly as it pulled free. Larry skidded to an abrupt halt as the sparking cable fell across Frederickson, causing the big man to twitch and jolt. Seeing the entire operation about to go up in smoke, Larry didn't even stop to think about what he was doing. Wrenching his boot off, he hurled it at Frederickson. By more luck than skill, the boot knocked the end of the deadly cable off the convulsing drug dealer. So of course it landed directly on Frederickson's phone, which was lying next to his hand.

Kelly came up alongside Larry as he sat on the curb. He wasn't even going to think about retrieving his boot until they turned the electricity off. "What the hell happened?" she asked. "Is he alive?" Her eyes focused on the boot lying on the road. "What the hell did you do with that?"

He heaved a weary sigh. "He's still breathing. You can see his chest moving. Don't go near him. That cable's live. Call the paramedics, and someone needs to call the electrical company to turn off the power before we can move him. Tell the driver not to leave his truck either."

She stared at him. "What the fuck? Did you just move a _live electrical cable_ with your fucking _boot?_ Are you _trying_ to get fucking killed? What were you _thinking?"_

He looked up at her, trying to muster all the authority he was due. "I was thinking that I wasn't gonna waste all the time and effort we've put into this goddamn case. Frederickson's scum, but if we can get him talking, he's _useful_ scum."

With a look of exasperation, Kelly shook her head. "You're crazier than I thought. The captain's gonna rip you a whole new one."

"Whatever." He waved tiredly. "Get to it. I'm just gonna sit here."

* * *

 **Brockton Bay General Hospital  
9:42 AM**

* * *

"Hey." Larry, now showered and shaved, turned to greet Kelly. "What's the word on the phone?" He was pretty sure he knew what it was going to be, but there was always optimism.

She shook her head slowly. "Sorry. The end of the cable landed right on top of it. It'll make a nice paperweight, but that's about it. It couldn't have been fried more effectively if you'd put it in a microwave. How's Frederickson?" The look she shot him said loud and clear that she hadn't forgotten his act of idiotic bravery.

"Doc says his vitals are strong. He should be waking up soon." Larry was looking _forward_ to this conversation. His ribs were still tender; getting Frederickson to flip on the Russian would make the whole debacle worthwhile. _The phone would've been nice, but Murphy's an asshole that way._

Almost on cue, the doctor appeared. "Ah, there you are. Your patient's awake. I suppose you want to talk to him?" He was a tall, spare man, going bald on top. "Try not to excite him too much. He's suffered potentially serious trauma."

"Have you given him painkillers?" asked Larry immediately. If Frederickson was on drugs, anything they recorded in there would be inadmissible in court.

"No," the doctor said. "He said he didn't need them." He shrugged and his brow creased. "He seems to be a very stubborn man."

"Let's see about that." Larry led the way into the private ward. Frederickson looked somehow reduced, lying there on the bed with one wrist cuffed to the rail. The edge of the dressing from the electrical burn was just visible under his hospital gown. He was pallid under the spray-tan, but was still lucid enough to squint suspiciously at Larry. "Hello, sir," Larry said cheerfully. "Do you know where you are?"

Frederickson's voice was peculiarly grating, but held no hesitation at all. "I'm the President. Can you believe it?"

Larry paused, and shared a glance with Kelly. _What the fuck is this?_ Lacking any sort of idea of what Frederickson was talking about, he took a deep breath and forged on. "Uh, no, sir. I can't believe it. You are in fact under arrest for drug-related charges, and you're in a lot of trouble. Unless, of course, you want to cooperate with us." He'd done this dance before. Sometimes they took a while to come around, but they nearly always did.

"No! Wrong!" Frederickson's voice rose. "I'm a big businessman! One of the biggest!" He began to sit up, but pulled up short as the handcuff rattled on the bed rail. "I do very big business all over the world!"

Kelly leaned in toward Larry and lowered her voice. _"Does_ he do business overseas?" He wasn't surprised at the question; the conviction in Frederickson's voice would've been hard to fake.

"Not as far as I know," he replied. "But I don't think we're gonna be getting anything out of him right now. That shock must've fried his brain pretty good."

She grimaced, her expression matching his feelings almost exactly. "Well, _crap."_

"Lock her up!" shrieked Frederickson suddenly, rattling at the chain. "Such a nasty woman! Lock her up!"

Kelly's head whipped around and she stared at Frederickson. _"Excuse_ me?" She took a step toward the bed. _"What_ did you just say?"

Larry shook his head, hoping Kelly wasn't about to assault Frederickson. "I don't think he was talking to you. Guy's a loony. Let's go."

He led the way out; as Kelly closed the door behind them, Frederickson let out another bellow. "I have the best words!"

 _Whatever the fuck_ _ **that's**_ _about._

* * *

 **BBPD 10th Precinct  
10:17 AM**

* * *

"So, your Hail Mary pass didn't pan out." Captain Reynolds, standing behind his desk, eyed Kelly and Larry keenly, although his disappointed expression was tempered with sympathy. "Did you get anything we can use? Anything at all?"

Kelly shook her head. "No, sir. It was just plain bad luck that he stood on the coffee cup and his foot skidded the wrong way. If that truck hadn't been there …" She trailed off. "Just plain bad luck, sir."

Reynolds grimaced. "Why can't things just go smooth for once? But you're both alive, which is what counts." Larry knew that Reynolds was fiercely protective of his 'crew', as he called them, and the precinct reciprocated the sentiment. All too many higher-ups would be happy to throw their subordinates to the wolves over a screwup like this. "And we'll pin the Russian down sometime. Somehow." The grimace returned in force. "Even if we're letting him go right now." His eyes went to the window separating his office from the precinct room.

Larry turned to look, just in time to see two officers escorting the Russian to the door. "Yeah, sir. We'll get him." He tried to inject the same optimism into his tone that the captain had done.

"That's the spirit." Reynolds fixed him with a gimlet eye. "Francesca, give us the room, please."

"Yes, sir." Kelly retreated, her parting glance communicating somewhere between sympathy and _you brought this on yourself._ The door clicked shut behind her.

"Detective Calhoun." Reynolds' voice was now a lot harder. "What in God's name were you _thinking?"_

Calhoun drew himself up to attention. "I was thinking that if we lost Frederickson, we lost the case, sir. And I didn't put all that work in to lose that now."

"Except that Frederickson is now apparently a delusional lunatic, and we have actually lost the case." Reynolds shook his head. "I applaud your dedication, but _Christ,_ I'd rather lose a dozen cases than lose one of my best damn detectives."

Calhoun tried not to sweat too obviously. "Am I suspended, sir?"

Reynolds shrugged slightly. "Would it help?" Before Calhoun could respond, he shook his head. "Trick question. No, it wouldn't. I think I'll put you on another case instead." He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. "It just came in a little while ago. You know Winslow High?"

Larry shuddered. "Fuck. _That_ shithole. A gang shooting?"

"You'd think so, but no." Reynolds sat down again. "If we'd got Frederickson talking, this would've ended up on the back burner. It didn't, so it's not. Congratulations. It's all yours."

Taking the sheet, Larry looked it over. "Shit, a girl got locked in a locker? With sanitary waste? For over an _hour?_ No witnesses?" He looked up at Reynolds. "Is this a punishment detail, sir?"

The captain's face didn't give a damn thing away. "Would I do a thing like that?"

 _In a heartbeat._ Larry grimaced. "I wouldn't know, sir."

Reynolds smiled. "Good answer. I await your report."

The dismissal was clear. Calhoun opened the door and left, still scanning the sheet.

 _I fucking_ _ **hate**_ _Winslow._

* * *

 **The Docks, Brockton Bay  
Thursday, January 6, 2011**

* * *

Marcus Kellerman, AKA 'the Russian', crouched beside his disabled car. His driver and sometime bodyguard lay slumped half-out of the car in a growing pool of blood. Shots sounded from the other side of the street, and he cringed as he heard bullets hitting the bodywork. _I am so fucking dead._

Kellerman had been born in Compton, New Jersey. The closest he'd come to visiting another country was the six months he'd attended community college, studying foreign theater. However, he knew the value of an exotic background, so when he moved to Brockton Bay, he'd reinvented himself. Gone were the suits and ties and the 'Joisey' accent. Instead, he now favored a long coat with a fur-lined collar and a vague Eastern European accent, relic of the few acting lessons he'd actually retained.

For a while there, he'd actually done okay. Frederickson had been an idiot, but a useful idiot. A failed scam artist, the fat man had an encyclopedic knowledge of the city's underworld. He'd just lacked the vision and forethought to apply his knowledge in such a way that he could make a big score and retire on it. Marcus' vision and forethought had been enough for the two of them, but now Frederickson had vanished and Marcus was worried that the police had him.

None of that mattered now, of course. Wherever Frederickson was, he wasn't here. _It's up to me. I gotta save myself._ He scuttled over to his bodyguard's corpse and scrabbled for the man's shoulder holster. More bullets hit the car and the windshield shattered, sending fragments of glass raining down on him. He hunched his shoulders and kept looking. _Where is it, where is it?_ Not that he thought he'd be able to do anything significant with it, but Marcus prided himself on never giving up until all was lost.

His hand closed over the butt of the pistol and he pulled it out into the open air. Without hesitating, he raised the gun over the level of the car and fired half a dozen shots blindly back at his attackers. Then he came up like a runner at the starter's pistol and began to sprint down the street. A dozen paces into his run to safety, nobody had shot at him yet. Two dozen, and he was still unscathed. In fact, the gunfire had ceased altogether. Despite the fact that every instinct was screaming at him to keep running, he slowed to a stop. Even now, nobody shot at him.

 _Okay, I gotta see what's goin' on here._ With the pistol held before him like a talisman to ward off danger, he eased back toward the ambush site, using every car, trash can and fire hydrant for cover. No shots greeted his return. Nor were there shouts or the sound of running feet. Finally, with a sense that his bravado was going to kill him, he leaped out into the area where the assholes had been shooting from. His pistol tracked over … six corpses. All lying back with expressions of utter surprise on their faces, each with a neat hole drilled right in the middle of his forehead.

"Wait … the _fuck?"_ The 'Russian' persona was so ingrained, he rarely fell out of character, but what he saw did the job. Six clean headshots … if he were to believe the evidence of his own eyes, _someone_ had just headshot every guy who was shooting at him. Unless, of course, it was him who'd pulled it off. Without aiming, or even _looking_. He stared at the pistol, then at the dead men. _Nah, couldn't'a been me._

Turning, he scanned the rooftop opposite for whoever it had been that sniped these guys for him. "Okay, you can come out now!" he bellowed, remembering just in time to put on the 'Russian' accent once more. "If it is job you want, I will give you job." Anyone who could shoot like that would be well worth paying good money to.

Nobody emerged. He looked again at the pistol in his hand. _Holy crap. Did I …?_

It was something that he'd have to think about. Over a drink. Or several.

* * *

 **Saturday Night, January 15, 2011  
The Docks**

* * *

The bar was a typical low-end dive. It was full of men doing their best to drink away their problems. In such a place, it was usually fairly hard to gain the attention of everyone in the bar at once. Even the 'costume' Marcus had come up with, augmenting the fur-trimmed jacket with a fur hat bearing a star on the front, didn't cause more than a few heads to turn. This changed when he pulled out the revolver and fired a shot into the ceiling. Silence fell; around him, more than a few of the patrons pulled weapons of their own. Knives there were in plenty, as well as a few guns. But he wasn't pointing his pistol at them; he was pointing it at his own head.

"I am Russian Roulette!" he bellowed. "I am luckiest man in Brockton Bay!" Theatrically, he spun the cylinder of the revolver; the _whzzzzz-clk-clk-clk-click-click-click_ was loud in the hushed silence. As it ran down, he placed the muzzle against his own temple. "Five bullets," he went on. "One empty. I am so lucky, cylinder is on empty. Watch." His finger squeezed the trigger; everyone seemed to jump as the hammer fell on the spent cartridge.

It had taken Marcus _days_ to convince himself that his luck was truly this powerful. Time after time he'd flinched away. Time after time he'd checked the cylinder to find that the empty cartridge was under the hammer. Every other test he could devise told the same story; his power would protect him. So just a day previously, he'd put the gun to his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the trigger. The dry _click_ had been the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. Now, after a dozen more tests, he was sure of it. His power would always make the cylinder land on the empty cartridge.

 _Brockton Bay, hell. I must be the luckiest man in the world._ There was nothing he feared, not any more. Except, of course, chickens. When he was very young, he'd been incautious enough to try to pick up a baby chicken at a poultry farm, and he'd been savagely attacked by several of the older ones. He'd been irrationally terrified of the species ever since.

"Fuck you!" yelled one man. "You got empties in all of 'em!" From the sound of it, he was both drunk and aggressive.

Marcus levelled his revolver at a wooden post. "You think so?" he asked. "Count the shots." He squeezed the trigger, and the gun went off once more. Five times he fired, leaving five holes in the post. By the time he finished, his ears were ringing—letting off a firearm indoors was hard on the hearing—but the look of astonishment on his would-be critic's face was gratifying as hell.

"That's fuckin' cape shit!" yelled one burly man. From his attitude, he didn't like parahumans. "Fuckin' cheatin'!" People turned to look at him, just as he stepped in a puddle of beer and slipped. He lurched backward, his arms windmilling, before the back of his head hit the bar and he slumped to the floor. A burbling snore escaped his lips.

"Maybe," Marcus agreed. "But it is very useful cape shit, yes? Anyone goes against me, they are very unlucky."

Another man stepped forward into Marcus' private space. For all that these were the very dregs of society, the patrons of the bar moved aside for him. Part of it could've been that the man was wearing a costume. Another part was almost certainly because he represented the source of the drugs that most of them depended on to get through the day.

"Okay, dicksnot," Skidmark said. "First, you don't pull that shit in my bar. Second …" He stopped to think. "Second, you got no bullets in that fuckin' gun, so you can drop it. Then I'm gonna fuck you up good."

 _Time for part two of the plan._ Marcus raised his hands, the empty pistol dangling from his index finger. His grin was wide and disarming. "At last, I have attention of Merchants! Is good! Have been wanting to work for you for so long!"

This was nothing but the purest bullshit, of course. He'd been happy supplying drugs to the Merchants, but working _for_ them was the last thing on his mind. Especially with the power now at his fingertips. _All these assholes should be working for_ _ **me**_ _._

Skidmark stared at him. "You hear what I said, dog-fucker? I said, I'm gonna _fuck you up."_

Marcus beamed back. "Would you not recruit powerful new Merchant? I am luckiest man alive. Help you kick serious ass."

 _Come on, take the bait …_

* * *

"In here, assmunch." A hard shove in the middle of Marcus' back propelled him forward. He wasn't too worried about tripping; even with a bag over his head and his hands tied behind his back, he knew he was too lucky for that to happen. As he regained his balance, he heard a door shut behind him. Even though the bag muffled the noises around him, he thought he picked up on echoes; it sounded like a large space. _Maybe a warehouse._

A moment later, the bag was pulled off his head, and he saw that he'd been partly right. He _was_ in a warehouse, but it was far from empty. Directly in front of him was a hulking monstrosity of a vehicle, its every line shouting that it was a Squealer creation. The Tinker herself was just climbing down from its cockpit, her trashy appearance not helped by liberal smears of oil and less salubrious substances across her face and clothing. A wizened little man in a loincloth and a girl with her hair hanging over her face in best emo fashion were wandering over as well, drawn by the commotion. _Mush and Whirligig, I guess?_

"Skids, what the fuck?" Squealer ran her hand through her hair, adding another layer of some kind of lubricant to it. Marcus suspected that if a lit match ever came close to her hair, she'd lose the lot in one blinding flash. "Who's this asshole and what's he doing here?"

"New recruit or dead guy, one or the other." Skidmark tossed Marcus' revolver to her, then followed with the box of ammunition that Marcus had been carrying in his pocket. "Load it up. Six shots." Pulling out a folding knife, he cut the cords holding Marcus' hands behind his back. "Don't try anything smart, turd-sniffer. I will wreck your shit before you can _fart."_

"Do not worry. Will not try anything." Marcus smiled broadly as he rubbed his wrists. He didn't know where his hat was, but he wasn't worried about that right now. "Will show you. Am luckiest man in Brockton Bay. You will see."

Squealer flipped open the revolver and dumped the empties, then expertly refilled the cylinders. Watching her, Marcus figured he could probably do it that fast as well, if he relied upon his luck to do it right. He just hadn't tried it yet.

"Okay, it's full up." Squealer held the weapon nonchalantly in her hand. "What now?" The muzzle wandered in Marcus' direction, almost as if she were expecting to be told to shoot him. _Has he ever told her to do that before?_

"Gimme the gun," Skidmark ordered. "You guys, power up." He took the weapon from the Tinker, then pointed at the craft. "Get in. Cover him with the main gun. Cock-gargler says he's lucky, let's not give him the chance to be stupid."

Obediently, Squealer clambered back up the side of the vehicle. At the same time, Whirligig had stepped away from Mush and was starting to spin up what looked like her own personal whirlwind. Mush's body, on the other hand, had extruded branching tendrils which were picking up random pieces of trash and pressing them to his body.

The cockpit cover closed behind Squealer, and a large gun muzzle tracked in on Marcus. It looked big enough to insert his head with room to spare. A speaker crackled to life. _"Ready, Skids."_

Skidmark nodded. "Okay then, wet-wipe. Let's see you do your thing." He tossed the pistol underarm to Marcus, then stepped back in front of Squealer's tank, directly under the main gun. "Show us your luck."

"Certainly," Marcus agreed as the gun slapped into his hand. He suspected that they couldn't have done it better if Skidmark had _planned_ to throw it that way. "I have to fire one shot off first, yes? So we have empty in cylinder?"

"Right, sure." Skidmark pointed. "But point it away from me, or I'll have Mush shove it all the way up your ass."

"Da, da. Of course." Marcus raised the pistol, elaborately ensuring that it pointed at none of the Merchants as he did so. When it was pointing up and backward, he squeezed the trigger. _Luck, time to do your thing._

The pistol went off, and his ears rang a little more than before; they still hadn't quite recovered from the bar. He would ever after be convinced that he heard two sharp metallic impacts, almost simultaneous with the shot. Whether he did or not didn't really matter, for even before the sound of the shot died away, Skidmark's head jerked back. Marcus blinked as the leader of the Merchants fell over, his brains painting the front of Squealer's vehicular monstrosity.

The tank chose that moment to lose power; squinting, Marcus thought he saw a bullet-hole between two plates. Smoke was starting to waft out of that hole. He decided that now was a good time to be elsewhere. After all, his luck was no defense against _stupidity._

Even as he bent over Skidmark's corpse, Marcus could hear Squealer's muffled screaming as she beat against the cover of the cockpit, which was starting to fill up with smoke. She jabbed buttons and wrenched at controls, but nothing seemed to work.

The keys were in the first pocket he looked in, which was lucky. That is to say, par for the course. He turned and strode out of the warehouse as Mush and Whirligig began to try to get Squealer out of the tank. His hat was still sitting on the passenger seat, but he ignored it in favor of getting the car started.

When he was just fifty yards away from the warehouse, the entire building exploded. A flying piece of debris went through the rear window, whiffed past his shoulder, and stuck quivering in the dashboard. As he drove, he looked in the rear-vision mirror at the mushroom cloud that was slowly growing over the ruins of the warehouse.

 _Now I can finally recruit my goddamn gang. And remove the pretender to my throne._

* * *

 **The Boardwalk  
Monday, 17 January 2011  
Taylor**

* * *

I stared at the man. He was wearing a calf-length fur-trimmed jacket, set off by a Russian fur hat on his head. Behind him was a bunch of about fifteen guys, all of whom seemed to be either drunk or high. It didn't take much to identify them as Merchants. Who the guy in the Russian hat was, I had no idea.

"Um, who the heck are you?" I asked. I wouldn't have bothered, except that he was staring at me kind of creepily. Like he wished that I didn't exist or something.

"I am Russian Roulette!" he proclaimed, in the fakest Russian accent I'd ever heard. "You are Taylor Hebert! I am here to prove you are liar and cheat! _I_ am luckiest person in Brockton Bay, not you!"

"I … _what?"_ I was not at all sure that I'd heard right. My power was pretty cool, but I had _not_ asked for challengers to show up and try to … prove they were luckier? "Mister, I have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

In answer, he leveled a pistol at me. "Your luck, it has run out!" Then he pulled the trigger. I flinched, just a little, but all that happened was that it went 'click'. He stared at it with an expression of betrayal. "What is this? I am luckiest man in Brockton Bay!"

"Having performance issues?" Alec's drawl hit just the right note. "I hear one in five men get it. Not me, of course …"

"No! I am lucky!" The guy—had he really named himself after a form of attempted suicide?—turned the cylinder a little by hand, then pointed the gun at me again.

"Say the word, Taylor," murmured Brian under his breath. "We'll take this asshole apart."

"Stay back," I murmured back. "I don't want you getting hurt."

"Not empty now!" shouted the man. He pulled the trigger … and the gun fell apart. I was pretty sure that guns _weren't_ supposed to do that, but there it was. He was left holding the butt, which was attached to the frame, but the rest of it was lying on the Boardwalk.

Chick Norris chose that moment to leap from Rachel's shoulder. He hit the Boardwalk, but he was so small and fluffy that he just rolled to his feet. Little tiny wings spread wide, cheeping nineteen to the dozen, he ran directly _at_ the guy with the stupid name.

I started up from my seat, terrified for my little chick pet … but Russian Roulette's face brought me to a stop. The guy's face went from the red of anger to the white of terror without any steps in between. "No … no!" he croaked, all trace of the fake Russian accent gone. "No, leave me alone, don't let it get me!" He turned to bolt, but stepped on the fallen cylinder, his foot shooting out sideways. With a massive thud, he landed heavily on the wooden boards.

I got up then, as the others took that as their cue to go into action. The guy was lying on his back, gibbering in terror, as Chick Norris clambered on to his chest. He could've easily swatted the little fluffball away with one hand, but instead he was cringing away. It was almost funny, in a kind of sad way.

In the background, I heard the sounds of Brian and Rachel taking down the fifteen mooks, with Alec helping here and there. As Chick Norris made triumphant cheeping noises over his cowering foe, Lisa handed me Brian's phone. I shook my head and hit redial.

" _Hello, Ms Hebert."_ Director Piggot's voice was wary. _"How may I help you?"_

"Um." I paused. "This might sound like a silly question, but have you ever heard of a cape called Russian Roulette?"

Her reply surprised me. _"Actually, yes. I received a report about him this morning. He's wanted for questioning to do with the suspicious deaths of several capes. Why do you ask?"_

"Well, you're really not going to believe this, but …"

* * *

End of Part Eleven


	12. Chapter 12

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Twelve: The Saga of the Weird-Shit-o-Meter

* * *

 _[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]_

* * *

 **January 9, 2011**

 **Uber and L33t's Base**

* * *

 _Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—_

The high-pitched whine cut through the sounds of electronic combat, startling Uber so badly that he flubbed the perfect sniper shot he'd been about to pull off. "Crap!" he yelled over the noise, throwing down his controller. "Dude, what the _hell_ is that racket? I was one headshot away from a medal!"

— _eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—_

"Don't look at me," L33t protested, though his eyes shifted to the side. "I don't think I built anything that was supposed to make that sort of noise." He grimaced. "It kind of drills into your head, doesn't it?"

— _eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—_

Uber fixed him with a steady glare. "Well, it's coming from your workshop, so why don't you go back there and stop whatever it is, before I drill something into _your_ head?" He picked up the controller and discovered that his character was dead, so he shot another glare at L33t, just in case he hadn't gotten the point before.

— _eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—_

"Fine," sighed L33t, dropping his own controller and getting up from the couch. "But I don't understand why you always blame _me_ for shit going wrong." He shuffled around the end of the couch and headed for the section of the current base they'd decided would be his workshop.

— _eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—_

Uber rolled his eyes, even though he knew L33t wouldn't see it. "Maybe because it's usually your fault?" he retorted. "Remember the exploding teleporter? Or the power armour that electrified your nuts? Face it, you're my bro, but sometimes what you build is shit."

— _eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—_

Even if L33t heard him, Uber didn't catch any reply, so he did his best to ignore the continued high-pitched whine. He expected for it to cut off at any moment; while L33t sometimes built stuff that blew up for no reason, he rarely forgot to include an off-switch. What Uber didn't expect was for the sound to get louder, almost as if it were getting closer. A lot closer.

— _eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—_

Turning his head in annoyance, he saw that the conclusion his ears had reached was actually true; staring at a PKE meter they'd acquired for a disastrous Ghostbusters show, L33t was heading for the couch. The sound was coming from the meter, of course, and it was even more skull-splitting at close range. The little arms were fully extended, and lights were running up and down them.

— _EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—_

"What the actual fuck?" Uber yelled. "I said turn it off, not bring it out here so I can admire it!" He dropped his controller on the couch again and got up, fully intent on taking the noisy device away from L33t and switching it off permanently. He had a sledgehammer somewhere that would be perfect for the job.

— _EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—_

"No, dude, it's my weird-shit-o-meter!" L33t shouted back. "It's registering something! _Look_ at it!" Pulling the thing away from Uber's reach, he held it up to reveal a round dial on its face. There was a needle on the dial that kept jumping off the stop and flicking part of the way around its face in sync with the lights.

— _EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—_

"Weird-shit-o-meter?" Uber shook his head disbelievingly. "Okay, you've built some pretty weird crap, but that takes the cake. Seriously, the whole idea of a weird-shit-o-meter is a joke." But despite himself, he leaned closer. Instead of numbers, there were words arrayed around the dial, carefully inscribed in L33t's scratchy handwriting. The progression went like this:

 **ODD**

 **STRANGE**

 **WEIRD**

 **BIZARRE**

 **LAUGHABLE**

 **IMPROBABLE**

 **BULLSHIT**

 **RIDICULOUS**

 **INSANE**

 **JUST NOPE**

— _EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—_

L33t flipped a switch, cutting off the noise and letting the needle fall back to the stop with a tiny _ping._ "It's _not_ a joke," he insisted, while Uber wondered if the ringing in his ears would ever go away. "I started working on it a few days ago, when I was wondering why so many of my inventions screw up so badly. Trying to measure if there was some kind of probability effect influencing my power. Call it a luck detector."

Uber snorted and rolled his eyes. "Sounds better than weird-shit-o-meter, but only just. I can't believe you really built something to try to detect luck. Did it work?" _Only L33t,_ he thought. _Only L33t._

"Well, not at first," L33t admitted. "I finished it a few hours ago, and it's been calibrating ever since. To be honest, I had no idea if it'd even pick up anything." He waved it in the air. "But it works! It really works!"

Uber took the device and turned it over in his hands. "And what's this bit?" On the back side of the device, there was another dial. The needle wasn't moving on this one, but it wasn't resting on the stop either. Instead, it was situated about one-tenth the way around the dial. There were percentage markings on this one.

"Oh, shit." L33t grabbed it back from him and stared at it. "Fuck, I _totally_ forgot about this bit. It's storing luck energy. When it reaches one hundred percent, I'll be able to discharge it."

"Discharge it." To Uber, that sounded kind of … ominous. "In a bad way or a good way? And what will discharging, umm … _luck_ energy do?"

L33t shrugged. "I have no fuckin' idea. I guess we'll find out when it happens."

For some reason, that didn't make Uber feel any better at all.

* * *

 **January 11, 2011**

 **10:35 PM**

 **Winslow High School**

* * *

Two and a half days later, Uber still wasn't feeling fantastic about the whole thing. It didn't help that he'd just helped L33t break into a high school in the middle of the night; high school hadn't been his favourite place back when he'd been a teenage gaming nerd, and it didn't look any better now that he was an adult. The echoing corridors and flickering shadows brought back long-buried memories of dodge-ball, wedgies and having his lunch flushed down the toilet. "This is a really bad idea," he hissed.

"Well, it wasn't my first choice either," retorted L33t. "When they had the false alarm with the Endbringer siren, I knew _something_ weird was going on." He gave Uber a dirty look. "But you wouldn't let me investigate the first lot of weird shit I found."

"That's because it was at the top of the goddamn PRT building!" snapped Uber. "It's not like they're going to let you wander around the most tightly guarded building in _town_ with your stupid gadget."

"Yeah, well, they might have. We'll never know now, will we?" L33t replied grumpily, and turned his attention back to the device he held. He hadn't been able to mute the insistent _wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_ of the weird-shit-o-meter, but plugging a set of headphones in had redirected the sound, to Uber's relief. "We're getting closer. Something weird happened here."

 _Yeah, two grown men just broke into a high school and now we're investigating a row of lockers. That's pretty fuckin' weird._ But Uber didn't voice his doubts. L33t was his buddy. They had each others' backs. "Like what?"

"Not sure." L33t was waving the WSoM (as Uber was now privately calling it) around like a divining rod, or how Uber assumed a divining rod would be used. Zeroing in on one particular locker, L33t ran the device over every inch of it, or near enough, while Uber helped by aiming the flashlight at the worn and dented metal.

Random damage aside, it struck Uber that this was the cleanest locker he'd seen in his life. There wasn't any graffiti. In some places, it even looked like some of the paint had been scrubbed off. Leaning close, he sniffed. "Can you smell bleach?"

"Bleach?" L33t sniffed. "I guess. But bleach isn't very weird. And the meter isn't registering much any more. We must've picked up all the residual luck energy that was hanging around here." Turning the WSoM over, he eyed the storage meter. "Not much. Another couple of percent. We'll be _forever_ at this rate."

"So can we go home now?" asked Uber hopefully. "This place gives me the fucking creeps." Why would the school go to the trouble of scrubbing a locker out with bleach? More to the point, did he really want to know the answer to that question?

"Ooh, just picked up a new focus." L33t headed off down the corridor, waving the WSoM in front of him. "This one's upstairs. Come on!"

 _So that's a no for leaving. Just great._ Heaving an aggravated sigh, Uber followed his buddy down the hallway. "What's upstairs, anyway? Classrooms?" He hoped it was only classrooms. If it turned out to be a science lab of some sort, things could get dicey if there was any kind of adjusted probability going on in the storage cupboard.

"Dunno. Could be anyth—whoa!" L33t stopped, aiming the WSoM at the base of the stairs. "There's another spot, right there. Holy crap, they're all over the place." Jerking into motion again, he hurried over to the base of the stairs. Even from where he was, Uber could see the needle jumping halfway around the dial and back again.

"What the hell would happen on the _stairs?"_ demanded Uber. "Did someone fall up them or something?" He stared at the steps, trying to discern what L33t's device could make of them. They looked perfectly normal, if he discounted the fact that the torchlight flashing back and forth made them look extra creepy.

"You're asking _me?"_ complained L33t. "I just designed it to detect weird shit. I didn't think to put in an instant playback." He took a step up, waving the WSoM around. "Shit, _something_ funky went down here."

"Nah, I really don't think so," Uber told him, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've got 'weird', 'bullshit' and 'insane' on that thing of yours, but not 'funky'." He spread his hands as L33t turned toward him with a betrayed expression. "What? It's true." If he had to come along anyway, he decided, he might as well make a joke of it.

"Fuckin' word games." L33t shook his head. "I swear to God, if I built a bullshit detector and pointed it at you, it'd go off the scale." He waved the WSoM around again. "Okay, I've got it all. Let's go." He started up the stairs again, looking almost as if the device were dragging him behind it. Stifling a snicker, Uber followed along behind.

They went up two flights of stairs with no more exclamations from L33t, though the skinny guy was panting a bit by the time they got there. Smugly, Uber surveyed his partner. "You know, you really need to get fit," he observed. "Tinkering isn't going to save your ass every time. Sometimes you've just got to be able to run away."

"Says the guy who can automatically figure out the best fitness plan and adjust it day by day as part of his power," retorted L33t. He waved the WSoM around again. "Okay, it's over this way." Turning his whole body like the WSoM was a compass needle, he started toward one particular door.

"Whoa, whoa, wait," protested Uber, staring at the door in question; more specifically, at the symbol emblazoned upon it. There was a 'cleaners inside' sign, but that was easily stepped around. "The girls' bathrooms? We're going in _there?"_

L33t, already at the door, turned to look at him. "You're shitting me, right? You have to be shitting me. You're scared of going in the _girls' bathrooms?"_ He held up the WSoM. _"Look_ at this thing, dude. It's going all the way over to 'bullshit'. I'm going in there."

"I'm not scared," Uber said. "It's just … it's _wrong._ We're grown men, and that's a bathroom for teenage girls. I feel like enough of a creepazoid already, just breaking into the school." He folded his arms. "It's wrong, and you should feel wrong about it too."

"Geez." L33t rolled his eyes. "You want I should protect you from the cooties? We're _villains,_ bro. We already steal shit. Besides, in case you hadn't noticed, the school's currently _closed._ Our chances of encountering a teenage girl in there is exactly _zero._ In fact, if you're as good as you keep telling me you are, nobody's ever gonna know we were _here."_ He paused and shook his head. "Never thought I'd have to say this to you of all people, but I think maybe you should grow a pair."

Uber stared at him. "Oh, you did _not_ just say that." He was the brawn in their team. The tough guy. L33t did the Tinkering and worked out the impossible gadgets, and Uber provided the muscle and skills necessary to make them work in their schemes. Telling him to 'grow a pair' was not in L33t's job description.

"Bro, I totally did." L33t gave him a shrug and a sheepish grin. "Sorry, but a guy who can't make himself go into a girls' bathroom really ought to hand in his man card." Holding up the WSoM, he pushed the door open. "Gimme the flashlight."

"No." Uber took a deep breath. Memories were flooding back; unpleasant memories. "I can do it." It wasn't the same school, or even a girls' locker room, but he recalled being forcefully shoved through such a set of doors, once upon a time, wearing nothing but his underwear. Everything else from his high-school years had merged together into one long unpleasant blur, but that had stayed with him, razor-sharp. The stares, the scathing words, the laughter, the sheer embarrassment; they had scarred him for life. Trigger events, he'd learned, did that.

People were more than their accumulated experiences. He had to believe that. Taking one step forward, then another, he pointed the flashlight at the door. He stepped past L33t and pushed open the inner door, trying to see the bathroom as it was in reality, not as his memory insisted it should be. First one step, then another, focusing his attention on the beam as it splashed over the floor and wall rather than on the shadows surrounding it.

 _There's nobody here. Nobody here._ He drew a deep breath, prepared to let it out—then nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand slapped on his shoulder. "Shit!" he yelped, spinning around and nearly falling over in his haste.

"Geez. Dude." L33t stepped back, hands up in surrender. "You were in the way. I asked you to move, but you were zoned the hell out. You all right? Getting enough sleep?" His expression, as well as his voice, showed genuine concern.

"Yeah." Uber let out a gusty sigh. "Bad memories. Long time ago and all that. Let's just get this done." He pointed the flashlight at the cubicles. "Huh. Looks like they were renovating or something. That's been taken apart and put back together." Most people wouldn't have noticed, but Uber was an expert at spotting small hints like that. It wasn't just due to his power; he'd developed it as a matter of self-preservation when L33t began cannibalising household items to build his gadgets. Having a microwave nearly go critical because _someone_ removed certain 'non-essential' components was something he never wanted to go through again.

"Well, it's where the weird shit happened, all right." L33t moved closer, waving the WSoM at the toilet cubicles. Uber considered commenting about how a toilet was one place where it was entirely too possible to find genuine 'weird shit', but decided to refrain. Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms, shining the flashlight at the ceiling to give L33t the illumination he needed.

"Okay, done here." L33t emerged from the cubicle he'd gone into, checking the dial on the back of the WSoM. "Damn, up to nearly thirty percent. Whatever happened here, it had to be pretty mind-boggling."

"Yeah, yeah, let's get out of here. Unless you want to break into the gym or something too?" Uber had his creepy feelings more or less under control, but he still didn't like this in the slightest. He didn't mind wandering around a junkyard or even the Boat Graveyard late at night, but a girls' bathroom just jumped up and down on his last nerve.

"Nah, let's go." L33t looked at the dial on the back of the device again, putting Uber in mind of a kid with a new toy. "Wow. Nearly thirty percent."

Uber led the way out of the bathroom, feeling his anxiety levels drop just from that simple action. As they got to the bottom of the stairs, L33t said, "Wait. I think the needle just moved a bit more than normal." He pointed the WSoM farther into the school.

"No. Hell, no. _Fuck,_ no." Uber pointed in the direction of the front doors of the school. "We are leaving this creepy-ass place. Right the fuck now. I don't care if there's a dozen other weirdness hot-spots. I don't care if there's a bunch of Fallen summoning _Behemoth_ in the goddamn basement. We're _leaving."_ He strode toward the exit, determined that nothing would hinder his exit. Except maybe L33t. The little guy could be unreasonably stubborn sometimes. And they _were_ bro's. But he really, _really_ wanted out of this damn school …

"Okay, you win." To Uber's immense relief, L33t came running up behind him. "They're not real strong, anyway. Probably nothing much." He waved the device at the side wall of the corridor. "But if I'm right, there's something in that direction. A bit of a distance away. The bearing isn't changing much, anyway."

"Good. I'll personally drive you there." Uber grinned at his partner, glad they were getting the hell out of Dodge. Though he was starting to wonder exactly _why_ the oddities were showing up in the school. If they were the result of a parahuman in the school, that meant there could be more … _oh, god. What if we have to come back?_

"Well, duh." L33t rolled his eyes. "You've got the car keys. And you never let me drive anyway." Turning off the WSoM, he shoved it in his backpack. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he looked around at the school, seemingly for the first time. "Y'know, for a place with a reputation of being a total shithole like this one, it doesn't look too bad."

"You don't get to drive because every time you get behind the wheel, you act like you're playing Mario Kart or GTA," Uber countered, feeling more comfortable by the second. "And I'm guessing you didn't see the tags in the side hallways. I suspect this place sees more gang activity than some areas of the Docks." As they exited the school, he paused to re-secure the locks. After all, the place had to be protected from the criminal element. At least, until it showed up for class in the morning.

* * *

"Wow, your hot-spot must be pretty strong," Uber commented. Casually, he checked the mirrors; nobody else was on the road yet. "We're nearly two blocks away from the school. I—"

"Pull over!" L33t was already scrabbling with his seat belt. "It's right here!" He popped the buckle and yanked the door open, barely waiting for Uber to bring the car to a halt. Even before the car had stopped rocking back and forth, he jumped out and ran back down the road a little way.

Uber got out a little more circumspectly and strolled back to join him. L33t was waving the WSoM around with little giggles of glee, which Uber considered almost as creepy as having to go into the girls' bathroom in the first place. He caught a glimpse of the needle, which was swinging even farther over into the reams of impossibility.

"Wow, holy shit." Finally calming down, L33t eyed the readout on the back of the WSoM. "That was a good twenty-seven percent all on its own. I'm over fifty percent and counting. Whatever happened here must've been _epic."_

Uber looked around, a memory tickling at his brain. This area looked almost familiar … but why? Closing his eyes for a moment, he ran through a memory-enhancement exercise he'd just come up with. It rose to the surface, waiting to be understood. Then he opened his eyes and looked around again. The memory clicked into place, and he let out a sharp "Hah!"

"What?" L33t looked at him. "What've you got? Do you know something I don't?"

With a devious grin, Uber just dug out his phone. He took his time opening the right page and flicking to the photo he remembered; the look of irritation and frustration on L33t's face was a little bit of sweet payback. "Check it out," he offered, showing L33t the phone. It was the duct tape picture, the one which had gone viral just that afternoon. One girl and four guys, who'd somehow managed to get themselves tied up in duct tape while running down the road.

"What … the … fuck?" L33t stared at the picture, then flicked through the other ones that had been taken at the same time. "Fuck, no wonder the meter started going off like it did. How improbable would it have to be for them to tie themselves up like that?"

"I dunno." Uber stared at the picture, then moved along the pavement and turned so the image on the phone matched with the background. "Okay, the way they've fallen … I'm gonna take a wild guess and say they were running away from Winslow." He checked the timestamp. "And it was just after school let out … and they were running with duct tape." Looking over at L33t, he snapped his fingers. "There's only one reason for a bunch of jocks to run with duct tape. They were chasing someone."

"Who made them have bad luck." L33t could fill in gaps too, it seemed. "So the shit that happened in the school, like the bathroom cubicle that needed to be taken apart, that was more of it." He stared at Uber. "Holy fuck. My weird-shit-o-meter detects the after-effects of this girl's power."

"Girl? Who says it's a girl?" Then Uber's brain caught up with his mouth. "Duh. Girl's bathroom. And if it was a guy, it would be all guys, not four guys and a girl." He paused. "Waiiit a minute." Taking a moment, he checked the tags on the pics, until he found one that had named the reluctant participants. Then he picked out the one girl's name—Sophia Hess—and searched for more pics with her name tagged to them.

What he found made him laugh so hard he had to sit down on the edge of the sidewalk. He couldn't spare the breath to talk, so he just handed off the phone to L33t and lay back on the cool concrete, holding his stomach. L33t joined him a moment later, cackling loudly. The image of the redheaded girl stuck upside down beside the toilet was _amazing,_ along with the look of baffled fury on her face.

"So … so that's why … they had to … pull it apart," Uber finally said as he managed to bring his hilarity under control. "Holy fuck, that's amazing. Whoever that is plays dirty as fuck. I'm in awe." L33t didn't say anything in reply, as he was still chortling madly to himself. Uber helped him up and they staggered back to the car.

They were halfway home before L33t finally got his shit together. "Oh, man," he said happily. "That was so worth it. Whoever's doing this, they've got one hell of a sense of humour. If that Hess girl's some kind of bully … wow, did you see where the tape was right over her mouth, and over her hair too? Boy, she looked pissed. That's what I call _payback."_

"Yeah." But Uber had been doing some thinking. "Just remember, before we start hanging around where whoever this cape is … remember, she's a teenage girl. A _bullied_ teenage girl. Who got powers specifically designed for fucking over bullies." He gave L33t a sober look. "We can't afford to get on her radar. If she decides we're a threat, it could get really bad for us. So we've gotta be careful. Really careful."

"We don't even know who she _is!"_ protested L33t. "And I don't want to hurt her. All I want to do is harvest the luck she leaves behind." He paused. "Which is something I'm pretty sure I've never said before in my life."

"So what do you want to do with all that luck, anyway?" Uber glanced over at him from where he was driving the car. "Win the lottery? Convince the PRT to participate in one of our shows?" He grinned, knowing what he was about to say was mean, but deciding it was too funny not to. "Finally make something that doesn't blow up in your face?"

"Oh, ha ha." L33t gave him the finger. "Look, if you get any more of those weird-as-fuck pictures, let me know. They'll probably be exactly what we're looking for." He stared at the readout again. "Forty-four point seven percent to go. We can _do_ this shit."

"Just so long as you don't go hanging around teenage girls like a creeper, I'm good with that," Uber told him firmly. "The last thing I want is for one of your gadgets to go off wrong because she decides you're a danger to her, and launch us both in the general direction of Seattle."

L33t didn't look any more thrilled by the prospect than Uber was. "Yeah, no. I'll be careful." Then he ruined it by positively _caressing_ the WSoM and crooning in a high-pitched cracked voice, "Won't we, my precious? Yes, we will …"

L33t, Uber decided as they drove on through the night, didn't _need_ a weird-shit-o-meter. The weirdness was right out there in plain view.

* * *

 **Friday, January 14, 2011**

 **West Virginia**

 **Merv's Second-Hand Cars & Trucks**

* * *

Merv Lambert lifted his eyes from his computer screen as the beat-up motor-home turned off the highway and rumbled into the lot. It bore an odd-looking scorch mark on the edge of the roof, and what looked like a half-melted TV dish on top. Frowning, he abandoned his game of Minesweeper and got up from his desk.

By the time he pushed the door open and exited the building, the motor-home had squealed to a halt—sounded like the brakes needed work, along with everything else—in the main parking area. Being a motorhome, it took up three car spaces. The door opened and a cheerful-looking blond guy swung down out of it. "Hey, boss," he called out. "This is the one from out Huntington way. Little bit of a fixer-upper, but at least she runs."

Ken might've been twenty-something to Merv's fifty-plus, but he was far and away Merv's best mechanic. Still, he was sometimes a little enthusiastic about how he judged the worth of a clunker. On the other hand, he'd coaxed the battered old beast back to the lot, so there might be something in what he said. Merv shaded his eyes and squinted at the motor-home. He couldn't recall anything about Huntington … or maybe he did. There'd been something in the news about a lightning storm over that city. Then he recalled a phone call that had come in yesterday. "Is that the one that got struck by lightning?" It wasn't much of a guess; the melted dish and big-ass scorch-mark kind of gave it away.

"That's the one." Ken laughed out loud. "Radio's fucked, climate control only works on 'arctic' or 'sahara', and the the electronic locking doesn't. Oh, yeah, and the GPS talks like Tweety Bird on crack and thinks north is south and east is west. But it's got a full tank of fuel, the motor runs and the gearbox works. I figure the rest is just details." He reached up and patted the side of the vehicle, and the wing mirror fell off with a clatter. "Uh, I can bolt that back on."

Merv rolled his eyes. "Put it back in the 'maybe' lot." He stumped over and picked up the mirror by its bracket. The glass hadn't broken, which he considered to be a sign of good luck. "Throw this on the seat, and put it back on when we start fixing it up. Right now, I got some other cars that need a bit of work."

"Sure thing, boss." Ken took the mirror and climbed back up into the oversized vehicle. Merv watched him, not without a little paternal pride. Ken might not be his real son, but the boy was coming along real good. In another ten or fifteen years, when Merv was ready to retire, he knew who he was gonna turn the business over to.

* * *

 **Later That Night**

 **Jack Slash**

* * *

The procession that trooped through the dimness would have scared the life out of any sane person seeing them in daylight. Of course, very shortly afterward, that person wouldn't be caring about anything at all, but that was to be expected from the Slaughterhouse Nine. A more careful observer, hiding and listening to what they were saying, would've have had a most educational experience.

Jack Slash didn't care about people seeing them or even listening in on them. He was too angry. Carrying on an argument that had lasted for the previous few miles, he glared at Burnscar, who was trudging along in a resigned fashion. "You asked if you could drive," he snapped. "I trusted you to drive. But I only just managed to get to sleep, and what did you do?"

Burnscar sighed in a defeated fashion. "I crashed the bus," she muttered. "It wasn't my fault." On the palm of her hand, two figures formed out of flame. One was bulky, but still recognisably human, while the other was massively deformed.

"Hey, don't look at us," Hatchet Face grunted, stepping closer so that the image winked out. "You had the wheel. We didn't make you do nothing."

"Yeah," Crawler put in, muting his voice so that it only came out of a few of his mouths. "You didn't _have_ to drive off the road to hit that cat."

"You were both yelling at me!" Burnscar threw up her hands in frustration. "I'm not good at dealing with that kind of thing!" She turned to Jack. "Tell them! They shouldn't distract me while I'm driving!"

Jack wanted to facepalm, but restrained the impulse. "I've already agreed with you on that subject, dear Burnscar, but what possessed you to drive directly into a _drainage ditch?"_ The cat in question had apparently jumped the flooded ditch. The bus … hadn't.

"It was the water!" protested Burnscar. "There was stuff floating on it and it looked solid!"

The argument looked set to escalate some more, but fortunately Shatterbird picked that moment to land near the group. Loftily ignoring the argument, she turned to Jack. "I've found a motor-home," she said. "It's in a used-car lot, not far away. Not even locked."

"There's no way we'll be that lucky," grumbled Hatchet Face. "Fuckin' thing probably won't even run."

"Language!" snapped Bonesaw from her perch atop the Siberian's shoulders. "I'm a little girl. I shouldn't have to hear words like that." The Siberian glared at Hatchet Face.

" … yeah, okay," grunted the brutish man. He'd been wary of the tiger-striped woman ever since he'd tried to get pushy with her, and she'd pushed right back. Jack wasn't entirely sure how she managed to no-sell the power-nullifier's ability, but he had a few ideas.

"We'll go and check it out," Jack said firmly. He looked to the south, where thunder was starting to roll again, and rain could be heard in the distance. "I don't care who drives, but we don't drive off the road to try to hit any kind of household pet. And we're going south-west. No other direction but south-west. Got it?"

Bonesaw raised her hand, like a child in class. "Uh, not arguing, but why south-west specifically? I thought we were heading back up to the northeast. You said a couple of weeks ago that you wanted to go and see old friends."

Jack gave her a stern glare. "I changed my mind. Now let's go."

As they started off, he wondered about his own change of heart, but couldn't pin it down to anything more than simply not wanting to get back to Brockton Bay right then.

* * *

 **The Same Night**

 **Brockton Bay**

 **L33t**

* * *

The weird-shit-o-meter shrilled its high-pitched whine into L33t's ear via the earpiece as he stared at the circle of anvils embedded in the concrete. The needle was moving farther and farther over toward the high end of the scale; from time to time it touched on 'Insane'. He'd never seen readings so high, not even on the collapsed building where Kaiser had been buried under frozen shit.

Uber stood with his hands on his hips, looking up at the frontage of the Forsberg Gallery. "When you say weird shit, you don't fuck around," he murmured. "I mean, holy fuck, how precise was—"

There was a beep in L33t's earpiece and he stared as the dial went all the way back to zero. "What the hell?" Had it broken already? What was going on? "Dude, I think …"

Then there was another beep. This one was more urgent. L33t suddenly realised what was going on, and he turned the weird-shit-o-meter over. On the back, the accumulator needle was resting against the stop, all the way to the right.

"What? What's the matter?" Uber took a step toward him. "What's going on, bro?"

In L33t's hand, the meter started to vibrate, and the whine in his earpiece took on an entirely different tone. "Uh … I think … I think it's gonna …" _Fuck, it's going to blow up in my face. I am so—_

Bright pink lightning surged out of the weird-shit-o-meter, crawling all over L33t's body. He felt his hair standing on end, but his nerves weren't jumping like they would be if this was actual electricity. Still, it was a fairly unpleasant experience, something like feeling ants run all over his body and shoving his hand into a bowl of warm lumpy jello.

Acrid smoke stung his nostrils, and he looked down to see that the weird-shit-o-meter had given up the ghost. It had measured its last milli-Odd. But that didn't matter; he felt energised. Ideas were sparking through his mind, making his fingers itch for tools and materials.

"Um, you okay?" Uber reached out gingerly. "It's just that your eyes are glowing a bit." He paused for a moment. _"Say_ something."

"I'm _fine."_ L33t knew that he'd never been better. More specifically, he'd never been luckier. "I need to get home. I need to rebuild this. No, I need to _improve_ it. I'm gonna build a better accumulator, with a more efficient dial, and I'm gonna make it so I can shoot bad luck at people! Let _them_ suffer the shit for once!" He laughed out loud, and thunder rolled overhead. Pausing, he blinked. "Whoa. That was cool."

"Fuck, yeah." Uber stared up at the sky. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"I have no idea. Let me try that again." Facing the sky, he clenched his fists. "I will call it—my _Luck Gun!"_ As he raised his voice, lightning crackled across the sky and thunder boomed in counterpoint.

"Fuck, if you can do that on command, our next video's gonna be _epic."_ Uber stared at him. _"Can_ you do that on command?"

Regretfully, L33t shook his head. "I don't think so. I do need to get back to the workshop right now. I need to build the Luck Gun before my luck runs out." He could feel it tingling through his limbs and fizzing in his brain.

"Uh, you can't build stuff that's the same as before. Right?" Uber didn't seem to have figured out what was going on.

"Tonight," declared L33t, "I _can."_ Raising his finger, he gestured toward the car. "Onward!" he proclaimed, just for shits and giggles. On cue, thunder rolled.

He knew it wasn't likely to last, but holy _shit,_ that was a cool effect.

* * *

 **The Next Morning**

* * *

Jack rolled over in bed and lay there, enjoying the comfort of the mattress. He had to admit that Shatterbird had really come through for them this time; the motor-home was just what the doctor had ordered. He'd managed to sleep right through the night and well into the morning, which was good.

On the downside, they'd stopped somewhere. He knew this because he couldn't hear the engine or feel any motion. Getting up, he stretched elaborately and pulled his shirt on. The bathroom was tiny, but it suited his needs. Someone had courteously laid out his cut-throat razor, so he washed his face, lathered up, and had a shave as well. A shower could wait till later, he decided, especially if he had to kill someone first.

After tucking various blades into their hiding places on his person, he wandered down the length of the motor-home and opened the door, to the sound of a low-voiced argument. The motor-home was pulled over into a park, with a city skyline in the background. The humanoid members of the team were sitting around a picnic table, staring at a map. They looked around as he stepped down from the motor-home.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Where are we, and why have we stopped?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Shatterbird answered with some asperity. "We're out of fuel, and there's no landmarks on our map that match the local geography."

"Ah." Jack turned to look at the skyline. A sense of foreboding that had been creeping up on him revealed itself all at once, and he knew where he was. It had been years, there were a few new buildings, but he knew beyond a doubt. "Tell me, from which direction did the sun rise this morning?"

"We couldn't see." Burnscar sounded defensive. "It was overcast and raining pretty heavily. I couldn't even see the signposts properly."

Closing his eyes, Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course you couldn't. So how did you find your way?"

"We followed the GPS," said Shatterbird. "It sounded funny, but at least it's working."

"No," sighed Jack. "No, it's not. I'll tell you how I know." He pointed at the city. His sense of near-dread was stronger than ever, but he forced it down. He was _Jack Slash_ , and he did what he wanted, when he wanted. "See that city over there? More capes per capita live there than in ninety percent of the continental United States."

Turning to the group, he spread his arms. _I didn't want to be here, but now that I am, may as well make the best of it._ "Welcome to Brockton Bay."

* * *

 _[A/N: Yes, evil cliffhanger is evil.]_

* * *

End of Part Twelve


	13. Chapter 13

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Thirteen: Lucky for Some

* * *

 _[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]_

 _[A/N2: In writing this chapter, I became aware that a couple of dates needed to be adjusted slightly in the last couple of chapters. This has been done. No plot-relevant information has been altered.]_

* * *

 **Saturday, January 15, 2011  
1100 Hours  
On the Road South of Brockton Bay**

* * *

Don Hammett pushed his hardhat back and scratched the top of his head. "Well, shit," he said. "Christner's not gonna be happy over this one." He looked at his head foreman, who happened to be a very competent woman called Maria. "Any chance I can get you to make the call to him?"

"Hah, no chance in hell," she scoffed. "You're the Director of Public Works, you get to piss off the bigwigs." She folded her arms and looked at where the culvert had come loose, then shook her head. "Helluva thing," she said. "And nobody was hurt?"

"Not a one," Hammett replied absently, digging out his cell phone. To his relief, he had two bars of reception. Not great, but enough. Bringing up Roy Christner's number, he hit the call icon.

" _Hello, Don."_ Roy already didn't sound happy. _"I presume you've got a really good reason for calling me on a Saturday."_

"Yeah, I do." Don cleared his throat carefully. "We got a busted culvert on the highway south of town, around about the twenty-five mile mark. Something got stuck in there during the rain, just enough to force water to go around the culvert and undermine it without going over the road. One in a million chance. Looks like something heavy came over it last night and shifted it slightly, and it's been subsiding ever since. Right now, it's just not passable. On the upside, there's a bypass road which we can divert traffic on to—to be honest, they're already using it—but on the downside, that road can't handle weekday traffic, so we're gonna have to fix it by Monday morning at the latest."

The silence on the other end lasted so long that Don thought the line might've dropped out, but eventually Roy came back. _"_ _ **Is**_ _it fixable by Monday? And does closing the road isolate anything? Truck stops, residential, anything like that?"_

Don turned to the hood of his 4x4, where a survey map of the area was already spread out. He put his thumb on the location of the culvert and ran it down the road. "To answer your last question first, there's very little on that section to worry about. A rest area but nothing else."

" _And can it be fixed by Monday morning?"_ The tone of Christner's voice suggested he was fearing the worst.

Don took a deep breath. "Monday midday or afternoon, at the latest. We're gonna have to take a big bite out of that discretionary budget, but if we work through, we can about do it. Might have to hire on some extra manpower to cover us for those roadworks in town, though."

" _Fine."_ From the tone of Christner's voice, it was anything other than 'fine'. But to give him credit, the man knew how to roll with the punches. _"Get it done."_

"Sir, yes, sir." Don wasn't even being facetious this time. Hanging up the call, he turned to Maria. "We've got a green light. Go."

"You got it." Moving toward where the roadworks crew were waiting by their machines, she started barking out orders. Don folded the map and climbed into his 4x4; he wasn't needed here any more. If he knew his crew, they'd get the job done. All he had to do now was go and close the other end of the stretch of road so that nobody found themselves in a dead end with nowhere to turn around.

But first, he had a phone call to make. Bringing up another number, he hit the call icon. "Danny? Don Hammett, Public Works. Got a question for you. How many of your guys are rated for road construction works?"

* * *

 **1500 Hours  
Uber & L33t's Base  
Uber**

* * *

Uber had seen L33t Tinkering many times before, and he knew it was a good idea to not wander too far when this was going on. On occasion it did indeed seem as though some malevolent fate wished to exact retribution on his best buddy for some unknown slight. When L33t was Tinkering, things caught fire or exploded, or caught fire and _then_ exploded, for no apparent reason. And if they didn't do it in the workshop, they did it in the field. He'd lost count of the number of times L33t had lost his eyebrows in the previous year alone.

But now his bro had been in the workshop for seventeen hours straight, and the most unnerving noise that had come out of there was the occasional unhinged-sounding cackle, though this was plenty bad enough. Even more unnerving was the answering rumble of thunder, each and every time.

Finally, L33t emerged from the workshop. His hair was standing out in all directions, but this was not in the least bit unusual. He still had his eyebrows, which _was_ unusual, especially following such a protracted burst of Tinkering. And he was costumed up, complete with accessories. "Saddle up, bro," he proclaimed. "It's time we showed Brockton Bay what Uber and L33t can do when we really put our minds to it!"

Uber stared at him and at the baggy khaki jumpsuit he was wearing, complete with the colourful logo on the shoulder. L33t had threatened to burn this particular item of clothing after the last catastrophic attempt to film an episode based on that particular premise, but there it was. And more to the point, there the rest of it was, as well. A futuristic rifle, held one-handed with the barrel resting back on L33t's shoulder, gave Uber a very strong clue as to what the defunct Weird-Shit-o-Meter had been rebuilt into, if he ignored the fact that L33t _wasn't supposed to be able to rebuild stuff._ From the rifle led a heavy cable which looped around to an ominously-humming backpack, twin to the one that had blown up once upon a time, nearly killing the both of them, at the worst possible moment. Another unpleasantly familiar piece of equipment dangled from his belt, gaudy with yellow and black stripes.

"Couldn't you have just built a duplicate? Or three?" Uber hated the beseeching tone that he heard in his own voice, but he knew that if this ended up nearly as unpleasant as the last time they'd tried it, he'd like to be able to say 'I told you so'. Worse; the last time, the backpack hadn't actually been _humming._ "And I thought you said you'd never build one of those traps again, after the last one ate half the base."

"Yeah, no, but this one'll work _properly,"_ insisted L33t stubbornly. "And I _did_ make a duplicate. Kind of, anyway. Gimme just one second." He ducked back into the workshop and emerged seconds later with another backpack, complete with rifle. This one was also humming. Uber wondered briefly whether L33t had tuned them to sound that scary. "This one's yours."

"Wait, what now?" Uber stepped back, holding his hands up defensively. "You never said anything about fitting _me_ out with one of those things. What if it blows up? What if it blows the _city_ up?"

"It's not gonna blow the city up," scoffed L33t. "The power packs are only rated to hold enough energy to blow up one big building, or two medium-sized ones. But _you_ don't have to worry. You've got the good-luck gun. I'm the one with the bad-luck gun." Still holding his rifle by its pistol grip, he waved the weapon in the air for emphasis. With his finger on the trigger. So of course, it went off.

Uber yelped and dived for cover as a coruscating beam of crackling energy burst from the rifle emitter and struck one of the overhead lights, which promptly let out a shower of sparks and went dead. Nothing else happened, but he chose to stay down a little longer, just in case. "You don't _need_ a bad-luck gun," he accused L33t. "Giving you any sort of loaded weapon is just _asking_ for friendly fire."

"Sorry," L33t said sheepishly. "But I figure that light was already going to go; at worst, I just pushed it along a bit." He offered the other pack in Uber's direction again. "Come on, are you gonna take it or not?" A sly note crept into his voice. "It's pretty heavy, and I don't know exactly what's gonna happen if I drop it."

"Fine," Uber said, hastily getting to his feet and snatching the pack and rifle from the Tinker's hands. He eyed them carefully, looking for signs of imminent catastrophic failure. The only such sign was the same continuous hum as the other one was emitting. No, he realised a moment later. Not _exactly_ the same hum; this one was harmonising with L33t's. The variations were almost imperceptible to the human ear on their own, but when the backpacks were close enough together, Uber could make out a very faint tune. A very _apt_ tune. He gave L33t an incredulous look. "Did you actually set it up so we'd have the theme tune as well?"

L33t shrugged. "Uh … kinda?" He made a careless gesture with his free hand. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. If you're gonna do it, go big or go home?" Cradling the rifle in his hands, he began checking it over. "So, anything important happen while I was doing my thing?"

Uber set his backpack down, then cautiously leaned the rifle against it. "Yeah, actually. We got a phone call. From Skidmark, of all people." He grimaced. "Why we ever gave our number out to that lowlife, I'll never know."

"Because sometimes we need money, and sometimes the Merchants might have a job for us that we don't actually hate enough not to do?" suggested L33t. "What did he want?"

"Nothing good. Want coffee?" Uber headed for the kitchenette. "Apparently he sent a dozen guys over to the Dockworkers Association to try to shake them down for cash. As luck would have it, they showed up about half an hour before a big meeting was due to start, and about _one_ minute before cars started pulling up in the parking lot. Cars full of big, burly dockworkers, to be exact. Big burly dockworkers with no money to give, and no fucks to give either. They beat the living snot out of Skidmark's guys, then tossed them in the harbour. So he's decided the Merchants aren't going to take that lying down. Squealer's got some tank thing she's going to drive through the middle of their offices, and he wanted us along for extra fire support."

"Jesus fuck." L33t slung the rifle and went over to the fridge. "Did he even have a theme in mind? Road Warrior? GTA?" Pulling open the door, he surveyed the contents. "Dude, we gotta go shopping sometime. I think the sandwich meat just blinked at me."

"No theme." Uber sighed, recalling the conversation. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he's got blood in his eye. You ask me? I think he wants to kill someone, just to prove the Merchants aren't a bunch of fucking dopehead losers. In case you're wondering, I told him no."

"Yeah, well," L33t agreed. "Fire support's one thing, but I'm not really on board with the idea of killing someone just because." He shut the fridge again, then looked around at Uber. "You know what? Fuck 'em. If they trash the Dockworkers, that'll bring the PRT and the cops down on everyone in the area. We don't need that sort of heat." Reaching over his shoulder, he tapped the rifle slung there. "What say we go and give this thing a proper field test?"

Uber eyed him suspiciously. "What did you have in mind?" A number of possibilities for the testing of a 'bad luck' gun ran through his mind. Some were interesting, while others were amusing. A few were downright terrifying. "Please tell me you aren't going to see if you can make Armsmaster crash his bike so you can steal his halberd."

To his disquiet, L33t actually looked thoughtful. " … Nah," the Tinker decided after far too long a pause. "Pretty sure he's got some sort of failsafe for that. Otherwise, I'd totally do it." He looked over at where Uber was making the coffee. "I'll finish that up while you go and get changed. Gotta look the part, you know."

"Yeah, but how are you gonna test it? And didn't you already test it on the light?" Uber wasn't proud; he was willing to use any excuse to back out of being in the vicinity when L33t fired off his bad luck gun. _Who knows what sort of spread it's got, anyway?_ "And what good am I gonna do with a _good_ luck gun?"

L33t rolled his eyes. "You shoot yourself, me and any innocent bystanders, duh. Keep everyone except the opposition safe." He sighed as Uber's expression didn't change. "Okay, _fine._ You can carry the trap, too."

Which didn't make Uber any happier with the situation. "So basically I'll have one potentially unstable power source on my back, and another on my belt. Why do I have a feeling that my life is flashing before my eyes?"

"Wuss." L33t rolled his eyes again. "Shoo. Go get changed, you big baby." He turned back to where the coffeepot was still coming to the boil. "You'll see. This one's gonna be my best invention yet."

"Yeah, like that's exactly a high bar," grumbled Uber, but he went anyway. Besides, he _was_ a little curious about what a 'bad luck gun' would do.

* * *

 **Half an Hour Later**

* * *

"Okay, stop here." L33t indicated the side of the road. "This is perfect."

"Perfect for what?" Despite the question, Uber was already pulling the car over with some relief. He was glad that L33t hadn't insisted on the logo for the side of the car, but that was probably just a matter of time. The whole time they'd been in the car, the power packs had been humming away gently in the back seat, and L33t had been singing along with the tune generated by the harmonics. Uber had never been closer to punching his partner.

"See that building there?" L33t pointed at one building, slightly more dilapidated than the others around it. "That's where the Merchants are crashing right now." Opening the back door, he pulled out his power pack. Pausing to check the name-tag he'd stuck on it—as he'd confided to Uber, shooting someone with good luck when he meant to use bad luck would really suck—he slung the pack on his shoulders and hefted the rifle. "Okay, atomic engines to power and phasers to stun."

Uber shook his head, wanting to facepalm. "That's two totally different franchises, and you know it. Anyway, what're you gonna do to the Merchants from over here?"

"Make them unlucky as fuck, that's what." L33t fiddled with the rifle, then raised it to his shoulder. "Wide-beam for the win." He pulled the trigger, and the same beam burst from the emitter … except that this time, it fanned out from the point of firing, enveloping the whole building in a ghostly purple glow. Nothing else seemed to happen, at least for the moment.

After a few seconds, L33t let up on the trigger. The beam winked out, leaving behind the smell of ozone. "Okay then," he said briskly, removing the backpack. "Let's get out of here. I can't imagine that they didn't notice that, and I don't want Skidmark pissed off at us, too."

"Smartest thing you've said all day," Uber said with a certain amount of feeling. "So when's the bad luck supposed to kick in?" Opening the driver's side door, he climbed in and had the car started by the time L33t got in on the other side.

"Fucked if I know," L33t admitted. "If the building was crappy enough, it should've fallen in on them. Or maybe they'll just stub their toes for the next week. If they're naturally lucky, maybe not even that. It's not an exact science, you know."

"Figures," Uber complained as they pulled away from the curb. "You build a device that measures luck, and even stores luck energy. But can you predict what it's gonna do? Friggin' typical, that's what I call it." For all his complaining, he made sure to apply a certain amount of acceleration; as L33t had said, they didn't want Skidmark pissed off at them. Especially in the mood he was in.

* * *

 **The Merchants' Crash Pad  
Squealer**

* * *

The ejection seat control system that Sherrel Bailey wanted to install in her tank was giving problems, which wasn't really a surprise as she'd crafted it from the gas cylinder of a swivel chair, an old alarm clock, bits out of a microwave and the TV remote. The latter item had pissed off the others, but when she threatened to cannibalise the TV as well, they shut up.

It didn't help with her work when weird purple lightning began arcing between everything. The device in front of her stung her finger with a fat blue spark, then launched itself straight up from the table and embedded itself in the ceiling. Cursing, she pulled back from her makeshift workbench and sucked on her fingertip, ducking her head as plaster rained down around her.

"Squealer, what the fuck?" That was Adam, lying sprawled in the least grungy armchair, the mask from his Skidmark costume pulled back from his head. "What've you fuckin' done now?" He struggled to sit up, then belched capaciously.

"Wasn't me," she said defensively. Even as she spoke the words, the purple lightning cut out, leaving the smell of ozone in her nostrils. "I'm doing something different."

Mush got up and stumbled over to the window, and peered out. "Can't see shit," he reported, shambling back toward the ratty sofa. "Just a car, but it's gone now."

Adam sat farther up. "What sorta fuckin' car, douchewipe?"

Flopping back on to the sofa, Mush shrugged. "Fucked if I know. Four wheels, an engine?"

Sherrel tuned them out and looked up at the ejection seat control module sourly. The wisp of smoke curling out of it told its own story; the thing would've been a dead loss even if it wasn't stuck in the ceiling. "Skids," she whined. "Fuckin' ejector control's fucked." The only other way out of the tank in a hurry was a series of locks and bolts she'd have to undo in sequence, which would be a pain if she drove into the water or something.

"Fuck." Adam got all the way to his feet. "Well, do what you can, then. I'm going for a fuckin' drink." Halfway to the door, he turned to face the others. "Don't forget. Monday morning, we're fuckin' up the Dockworkers for good and all. Those cock-garglers are gonna learn why you don't fuck with the Merchants."

Sherrel shrugged. "Okay, sure." She wouldn't really need an ejection seat for her tank if they were only going up against normals. Just for one fight, she could do without.

 _It's not like I'll be in any real danger anyway. Time to get high for the weekend._

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

"But you're sure you're okay?" I pressed. "The Merchants are scary people." Not as scary as the ABB or the Empire—well, as the Empire _used_ to be before the Great Blue Ice Escapade, I mentally corrected myself—but still pretty scary. When I was younger, Dad had drummed stories into me of kids being snatched off the street and getting forcibly addicted. I didn't know if they were actually _true,_ but they'd certainly made me careful about going into certain parts of town. Which, I supposed in retrospect, was the whole idea.

"I'm _fine,"_ Dad said, his tone halfway between amused exasperation and fond indulgence. "They never laid a hand on me, or any of the office staff. I knew the guys were coming in for that meeting, so I stalled as hard as I could. They were still at the chest-puffing stage when Kurt walked in the door." He shrugged. "It was pretty well cut and dried after that."

"Well, it was lucky they picked that time to try and shake you down," I said. "If Kurt and the others hadn't shown—"

He chuckled. "Honey, I never had a moment's doubt it was your power that arranged things the way they came out. We've just had a contract come through from Public Works, so we're able to hire on everyone who needs work. That's what the meeting was about. The Merchants thought they could get a slice of that pie. They thought wrong."

"Oh." I hadn't thought my phrasing was significant, but obviously it was. For most people, 'lucky' was just a turn of phrase; for me and Dad, it seemed to be a way of life, now. "I just hope they get the message. I'd hate for anyone to get hurt because my power decided they weren't important enough to me."

"I wouldn't worry." He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Lowlives like that tend to back off as soon as they run into someone who pushes back. I doubt we'll have anything more to worry about from that quarter."

The surety in his voice steadied me. "Good," I said, feeling better already. "One _less_ thing I have to worry about."

* * *

 **Uber**

* * *

"Well, _that_ wasn't exactly earth-shattering," Uber observed once they were a few blocks away from the Merchant crash pad. "Are you even sure it did anything?" He wasn't exactly _doubting_ L33t; his buddy's inventions had been known to do some really crazy things on occasion. Sometimes, they'd even been on purpose. But the idea that they'd ensured the Merchants would have bad luck (at least for a time) sounded a little weird, even for L33t.

"Of _course_ it did something." L33t reached back to the bar fridge that took up a third of the back seat of the car and pulled out another energy drink. He'd once offered to install a Tinkertech version that delivered the can right to the hand, but Uber had vetoed the concept on the principle that L33t needed both hands to Tinker with. "It draws on ambient luck energy to charge itself, and when it's firing, it separates out the bad luck from the good, storing the good luck and imbuing the target with the bad. Your gun basically does the opposite. Tonight, we can recharge your gun with the stored good luck from mine, and mine with the bad luck from yours."

"I didn't ask _how_ it works," Uber said patiently. "I asked _if_ it works." He negotiated another turn. "I mean, the _concept_ is cool and all, but all I've seen is a pretty lightshow. And it wasn't even flashy as lightshows go." With one hand on the wheel, he turned to L33t and shrugged apologetically. "It's all I'm saying, dude."

"Okay, fine." L33t didn't have an especially prominent chin, but he stuck it out anyway. "Take us up Captain's Hill. You want results? I'll show you results."

Uber had no idea what L33t wanted with Captain's Hill, but he decided to play along. "Aye, aye, sir. Captain's Hill it is."

As he turned the car in that direction, he saw the clouds were rolling in again. _I wonder if a luck gun will be enough to stop us from getting rained on._

* * *

 **The Slaughterhouse Nine  
Jack Slash**

* * *

"So are we going in or not?" rumbled Hatchet Face. He indicated the Brockton Bay skyline, under the lowering clouds, with a wave of his cleaver. "We've been waiting half the day and I'm looking forward to meeting some of the capes you told me about. What's the holdup?"

By 'meeting', Jack knew quite well that the man meant 'hacking to pieces', but the question was unwelcome all the same. He himself wasn't quite sure why he was so reluctant to proceed, but he'd made a career of listening to his instincts and right now they were screaming at him to run in the other direction. The trouble was, he was a contrary soul by nature and he had to know _why._ So he was torn between telling everyone to retreat as expeditiously as possible and going forward to see what had him spooked. Worse, a good part of his leadership of the Nine depended on his reputation among them for decisiveness and infallibility, and this wavering was sending exactly the wrong signals.

"Yeah," put in Crawler. "What's keeping us? I wanna see how Lung stacks up against me." As he spoke, the saliva drooling from several of his mouths sizzled as it fell on the concrete floor of the roadside rest stop. He moved irritably to one side, accidentally knocking over a concrete bench.

"He uses fire," Jack reminded him wearily. Crawler was the quintessential masochist, who relished getting into fights where he'd get hurt. Of course, once his opponent hurt him and he survived it, they were of no more use to him, so he killed them. "You're immune to fire, remember?" Well, perhaps not _immune,_ but he'd once parked himself in a blast furnace and come out even more horrific than ever. Jack suspected he could shrug off anything short of a point-blank tactical nuke. Which, to be honest, might not even be enough to finish him off.

Crawler made a noise of discontent. "But he fought Leviathan. _I_ wanna fight Leviathan." Despite the whine in his multiple voices, inherent in the statement was the fact that Crawler desired the actual fight, not the possibility of beating an Endbringer. Jack was pretty sure Leviathan could hand out damage on a level Crawler had never experienced before, which was what Crawler craved. Though not even he was sure whether it would be enough to kill the monstrous cape.

"I've been waiting for another vehicle to come past," he hedged. "One we can grab that's big enough for Crawler to fit in the back." None had shown up, which satisfied the part of him that wanted nothing to do with Brockton Bay, but … "Wait a minute," he said. "When's the last time _any_ vehicles passed us by in either direction?" He castigated himself for not paying more attention but in his defence, he'd been a little distracted since he woke up.

"No large vehicles have passed by since we got here, and I've seen nothing on the road at all since midday," Shatterbird reported promptly, in her overly-precise British accent. "Do you believe they know we are here, and they're diverting traffic around us?" She glanced around, as if imagining enemies creeping up on them from all sides. The winged glass 'costume' she habitually wore in combat rose from the ground beside her and wrapped itself around her body.

It was a distinct possibility, and one that Jack spent a few moments considering. Then he shook his head. "I sincerely doubt it," he decided. "With the preponderance of capes in that city, we would've been neck-deep in them already if anyone at all knew we were here. Heroes to take us down, and villains to earn the bounty on our heads. So it's something unconnected to us. But still, I'm curious as to why." He nodded to Shatterbird. "Thank you for volunteering to find out."

"But I didn't volunteer …" Shatterbird's voice trailed off, and she gave him an irritated look. "It's because I'm the only flier, isn't it?" Even as she spoke, the glass wings began to spread out; this was all for show, of course, as they all knew she didn't actually need them for flight.

 _Interesting._ Normally, she wouldn't have questioned his order-disguised-as-a-request, and indeed was already preparing to obey it even as she spoke up. But the fact remained that she _had_ spoken up. It made him wonder if anyone else was beginning to question his authority.

"Of course," he said lightly, making his voice reasonable enough that her semi-objection sounded whiny by comparison. "And our fastest mover. The Siberian is the only one who could begin to match you, and she unfortunately doesn't speak much." His lips creased in a condescending smile as he glanced from her to the pyrokinetic. "And while Burnscar can undoubtedly cover a lot of ground in a short time, the fires she has to set in the process would negate the concept of scouting without giving oneself away, don't you think?"

Grudgingly, she nodded. "Of course," she replied; he wondered if she noticed that she'd accidentally echoed his own words. "I'll go and see what's going on. Should I check toward the city or away first?" Lifting into the air under the impetus of her telekinetic manipulation, the ton of glass surrounding her managed to pull off the near-impossible trick of looking as light as a feather.

" … toward, I should think," Jack decided after a moment of thought. "It would make more sense that they'd block the road from that end first."

A few drops of rain fell, and she looked upward unhappily. "It's starting to rain," she pointed out; not quite a complaint, her comment was giving him the option to tell her to wait it out, he judged.

"The quicker you get it done, the quicker you'll be back here," he pointed out cheerfully. It wasn't _his_ problem; he was going to be staying nice and dry whether it rained or not.

With an almost inaudible noise of discontent, she lifted into the sky and headed north. He watched her go, then headed back to the picnic table he'd been sitting at as heavier drops began to fall. Mannequin, standing nearby, tilted his head to catch Jack's attention. He made several motions with his hands, which Jack interpreted as _She's not going to be thrilled with you when she gets back, you know._

"Yeah, I know." Jack shrugged. It was an occupational hazard; to be a member of the Nine, a cape needed to be at least a little unstable. This meant they were sometimes a little challenging to keep pointed in the same direction, but he'd managed it so far. "I'll talk to her. She'll see reason." They always did; it was a gift he had. King, the founder of the Nine, had tried to maintain his position by keeping everyone intimidated with his power; if he could touch you just once, you'd already lost the fight. It hadn't helped him against Jack and the boy who'd called himself Harbinger; between ranged attacks and the ability to always dodge their opponent, they'd worn the older man down until no more lives stood between him and defeat. It was probably a good thing that Harbinger had moved on, because Jack suspected they would've eventually come to blows over the leadership of the group, and he wasn't at all certain of his chances against the other man.

As he sat down, a grinding sound alerted him to the fact Crawler was eating the concrete bench that had been knocked over. "Must you?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

Crawler didn't stop eating, but several of his secondary mouths replied. "I'm hungry. And this got in my way."

If Crawler had been any normal cape, Jack would've doubted his ability to digest such a meal, but he'd once seen the monstrous parahuman eat half a car when he was bored. "I wasn't talking about the damage. You _know_ what happens when that stuff mixes with your stomach acids." The floor under Crawler was already heavily pitted, with noxious gas billowing up from the holes.

Crawler shrugged, an odd movement considering his pseudo-quadruped build. "Not my problem." He kept eating the bench.

Jack sighed and moved to another seat, this one upwind from Crawler. He knew what this was all about; Crawler wanted to go to Brockton Bay, and was acting out because Jack wasn't letting them go. But Jack couldn't be sure there wasn't a trap waiting for them.

A loud rumble rattled the roof of the shelter, and Jack glanced sharply at Crawler. But as it happened again a moment later, he realised it was thunder rather than the immense cape's insane digestive system. That, however, was only a matter of time.

 _Come on, Shatterbird. The sooner you get answers, the sooner we can get out of here._

* * *

 **Top of Captain's Hill  
Uber**

* * *

"Okay," said L33t, striding over to the edge of the observation platform. Brockton Bay spread out beneath them, looking oddly beautiful from this angle. Uber knew better; close up, the city was little better than a cesspit in some places. "We're gonna find a cape of some sort and we're gonna zap 'em. Then we watch to see what happens."

"How are we even gonna see them, let alone target them?" asked Uber pragmatically. "They'll literally be miles away."

"Leave that to me." Pulling an oddly-designed set of binoculars from his belt, L33t gestured out over the city. "These little babies use non-Newtonian physics to crunch space so you can ignore about ninety-nine point nine percent of the distance. They work great, but I always get a ringing in my ears after I've used them." Holding the binoculars to his eyes, he began to scan the city.

"I'm pretty sure non-Newtonian physics doesn't work—hey, what's that over there?" Uber pointed at where a tiny spark hovered in the air, far off in the distance. If he was right, it was hovering over I-95, which headed southward in the general direction of Boston.

"Where? Lemme see." L33t lowered the binoculars so he could see where Uber was pointing. "Huh. Is that Purity?"

"Don't think so." Uber shaded his eyes and peered in that direction. "See that gap in the clouds? Sunbeam came right through there and lit them up, whatever they are." The gap in question was narrowing rapidly, but as luck would have it, the beam kept up with the tiny dot, illuminating it brightly.

"Huh, right." L33t put the binoculars to his eyes and peered in that direction. "Oh shit." Lowering them, he turned to Uber, his face drained of all blood. "Shit. Dude, we gotta get out of town. That's fucking _Shatterbird._ The Slaughterhouse Nine's in town."

"Holy fuck. Let me see." Uber didn't quite snatch the binoculars from L33t's hands, but it was a near thing. Holding them to his eyes, he moved them back and forth across the sky to acquire the target. Abruptly, a brightly-glinting form swooped into view; glass wings spread wide, it was indeed Shatterbird. "Fuck!" Involuntarily, he recoiled, losing the sight picture. Recovering, he looked for her again and found her. "What's she doing?" It looked like she was scanning the road below her for something.

"Who the fuck _cares,_ dude?" L33t tugged at his arm. "We've gotta get _out_ of here. Leave town. Or at least barricade ourselves in our base. It's the fuckin' _Nine."_

"Wait a minute. Let me think." Uber stared at the still-humming backpack on L33t's back. "What's the range on these guns? You were gonna shoot at capes over the city, right?"

L33t stared at him as if he'd started babbling in Esperanto. "You want to _shoot_ at her? She's a member of the _Nine!_ They'll _shred_ us!"

"No." Uber shook his head firmly. "What happened to the L33t I saw last night, the one who made thunder roll when he laughed? What happened to the luck gun? Don't you think it'll work any more?"

"Then, I was the luckiest asshole in the country," L33t said. "Now, I'm just another second-rate Tinker. And I don't wanna become a second-rate corpse. Now, let's _go!"_

"Thanks." Uber grinned at him. "I was wondering where I was going wrong." He unslung the rifle from his back and pointed it at L33t.

"Hey, what the fu—" yelped L33t, but Uber had already pulled the trigger. The humming from his pack cycled up to audible levels, and a crackling beam of coruscating purple and orange light bathed L33t from head to toe.

Uber kept the trigger down until the gun sputtered and died, then looked at his best buddy. "You all right?" he asked, not without reason; once more, L33t's hair was standing on end, and his eyes seemed to have an odd inner glow.

"You shot me." L33t's voice was flat.

"Uh, yeah." It began to dawn on Uber that maybe he'd gone a little too far. "Sorry, but I thought—"

"Forget _sorry!"_ L33t cackled out loud as he snatched his own rifle off his back. Overhead, thunder rolled. "That's just what I fuckin' needed. Okay, Shatterbitch. Time for me to luck you up!"

Uber shook his head. "That just sounded wrong." It didn't matter how lucky L33t was, his puns were still fucking horrible.

"Do I look like someone who gives a shit?" L33t cackled again as he fiddled with the rifle, eliciting another thunderous accompaniment. "Okay, setting this bad boy to homing." Raising the weapon to his shoulder, he sighted in on the distant spark. "Let's ruin her whole _century."_ Then he pulled the trigger.

The beam that leaped from the emitter at the tip of the barrel didn't seem to be able to make up its mind what colour it wanted to be. At first, it was deep green, but that faded to a rather attractive aquamarine as it crackled and writhed across the sky. Uber watched it reach out toward Shatterbird, twisting and curling through the air. At the last second, he raised the Tinker-binoculars and caught the look of utter astonishment on her face, just before she launched herself sideways in an effort to avoid the incoming attack.

Which was the exact wrong move to do; had she stayed where she was, the semi-randomly hunting stream of bad-luck energy would probably have missed her. Of course, it was _bad_ luck energy, being directed by a guy who was brim-full of _good_ luck, so it may well have been going to happen that way all the time. Uber decided that trying to analyse the difference between imposed luck and real luck would give him a headache, so he wasn't going to think about it any more.

Whatever the reason, Shatterbird dodged straight into the path of the beam. It latched on to her and then _intensified,_ the humming of the pack going into overdrive. Uber saw the beam brighten considerably, and shift straight through blue to a deep, almost invisible, violet. Shatterbird was enveloped in the field at the far end, and from the increasingly desperate evasive manoeuvres she was pulling, she was not in the least bit happy about it. To be fair, this would've been his own reaction as well.

And then she pulled off the impossible. One moment, she was firmly enmeshed in the bad-luck aura, and then she was free of it. And she was flying _toward_ Captain's Hill. With the excellent view of her face via the binoculars, Uber could see exactly how pissed she was. The word 'murderous' bobbed to the top of his mind and stayed there, because it fitted her expression really well.

"Hit her again!" he urged L33t, lowering the binoculars. For half a second, he considered making a bolt for the car. Then he decided that there was no way in _hell_ they'd make it off the hill in one piece with a member of the Nine bearing down on them. Which led to the next thought in the chain: _What the living_ _ **fuck**_ _was I thinking, accepting that a 'bad luck' gun would do anything against a stone killer like Shatterbird? And even if L33t's extra lucky right now,_ _ **I'm not!**_

For a second, as the beam intensified again, he thought L33t had reacquired her. But this was not the case; while Shatterbird was still arrowing in at them, the beam was reaching _past_ her, literally arching out of sight around the curve of another one of the hills flanking the one they were on. Whatever who or what it had latched on to was, it _wasn't her!_

"Dude!" he yelled. "What the fuck are you doing? Hit her _again!"_ Frantically, he began to claw the trap off his belt. He didn't even know if it would function correctly, or if she'd end up in the exact position needed to pull off a Hail Mary, but it was better than just standing there and waiting for her to murder him with ten thousand glass razors.

"It won't!" L33t shouted back. "It's fixed on to someone else! I didn't even know it shot that far!" He let off on the trigger, and the beam cut out, then he pointed it more closely toward Shatterbird's oncoming form. Adding to the pucker factor, they could actually see her as a human form with glass wings now, and not just a glinting dot. Not that she was being illuminated from above any more; in fact, the clouds were building up above Captain's Hill even more thickly than before.

Before L33t could fire again at Uber's silent urging, something else did it for him. Just as the first heavy raindrops began to fall, lightning stabbed down from the clouds above, hitting something on the slopes of the hill. On the way, it neatly intercepted Shatterbird's path, lighting her up like a fucking Christmas tree. Uber wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but that lightning bolt seemed to hang there forever, pulses of electricity running through it … and her. Even as the _KRAKA_ _ **THOOM**_ did its best to make his eardrums meet in the middle of his head, he saw her limp figure falling to the ground far below, shards of glass surrounding her like twinkling snowflakes.

He never actually witnessed her hitting the ground, but that was probably because he was trying to blink the intense violet line out of his vision. And shaking his head in a vain attempt to get some of his hearing back. He did register that L33t was tugging at his arm, and looked that way. His buddy's mouth was moving, and after squinting a bit and concentrating on lip-reading, he figured out that L33t was saying, "Come on, we gotta go."

Which was a great idea, especially as it was starting to rain in earnest now. Also, they weren't being flayed alive by Shatterbird, so being hit by lightning had probably taken her all the way out of the picture. He hoped. Stumbling in the general direction of the car, he pulled the backpack off and slung it into the back seat, along with the trap. Using it would've been a crapshoot anyway, and L33t was the lucky one right then, not him. On the heels of that realisation came another one: _Holy crap, the bad luck gun actually worked!_

Working more on instinct than rational thought, he got the car started and set it moving off down the hill. He knew his hearing was starting to come back when he heard L33t swearing. It was kind of impressive; he hadn't known the guy had such an extensive vocabulary of profanity. "What's the matter?" he asked, making sure to concentrate on the road; even with the wipers going full speed, he had trouble seeing more than a few dozen yards ahead.

"We fucking killed Shatterbird," L33t spat, sounding utterly livid at the idea. Uber wasn't at all sure why; after all, she'd been on the point of murdering them. If she'd chosen to use her scream over the city, a good chunk of Brockton Bay would've been massacred or maimed with no warning whatsoever. And they would've also been dead, which was a bit more important in his mind.

"Yeah, we did," he agreed. "Your luck gun fucking worked. I'm sorry I ever doubted it. Man, what a way to go. Struck by lightning." He forced a chuckle. It wasn't really convincing, even to his own ears. That had been way too damn close.

"No, you don't _get_ it," L33t persisted. "We killed _Shatterbird._ There's a kill order out on her head. Maybe a million dollars worth of bounty. And now, even if we tell everyone, even if we can find the fucking body, nobody's gonna believe it was us. She got struck by lightning. Luck gun? Don't be ridiculous." He started swearing again.

 _Oh, for_ _ **fuck's**_ _sake._ L33t was right. A million dollars would've added very nicely to their kitty, but the chances of their actually being able to claim it were probably minimal to none. There'd been no witnesses at the top of the hill, and Uber was willing to bet nobody had been looking that way with recording equipment at the right time. _Being infused with good luck so you don't die is one thing. Getting money out of it is apparently something totally different._

Then again, he supposed, he shouldn't be greedy. Shatterbird was dead, they were alive, and the luck guns worked. _That's something, I guess._

* * *

 **The Slaughterhouse Nine (now Seven)  
Jack Slash**

* * *

The rain was still only coming down in single drops rather than a downpour, but Jack was certain this would change relatively soon, by the way the clouds were getting darker. Also, Crawler's gut had yet to react to the concrete bench he'd just finished ingesting; Jack hoped the latter event would come sooner rather than later, so they could get it over with. He wasn't sure if the monstrous cape even had to eat to stay alive, or if he did it simply because he felt like it. Certainly, the few times capes had managed to destroy any large parts of him, the lost parts regenerated in mere seconds, so it wasn't as if he needed food to build biomass.

And then all other considerations were driven from his mind, as some kind of energy discharge hit the roof of the shelter and filled the interior with crazily crackling arcs of violet lightning. Several grounded into him and he flinched back, but all he felt was a mild tickling sensation. In another instant, the Siberian was beside him with one hand on his shoulder and the other holding Bonesaw's hand. The tickling did not cease, and he held up his hand to watch the violet fire creating a web-like effect between his outspread fingers.

"I think it's harmless," he said, studying the effect with interest. "Whatever it is. Alan, any ideas?" He looked over at the white-carapaced killer, who hadn't moved from his position. In the distance, lightning cracked down from the clouds, and thunder rolled.

Mannequin shrugged eloquently, then made several hand gestures just as the effect ended. Jack read them as _Saint Elmo's fire maybe?_

No scientist himself, Jack had still heard of the phenomenon. Purple fire seemed to be a documented aspect of it, as did the fact that it occurred during thunderstorms. The smell of ozone was also not unexpected. "Maybe," he allowed. "That or some Tinker trying out their new toys." A corner of his mouth hitched up in a sardonic grin. "And now we know for a fact nobody knows we're here. If they did, whatever we just got hit with would've been a sight more deadly."

"I'm more worried about the fact that we got hit at all and we don't know who did it, where they are or what it was supposed to do." Burnscar looked around as everyone focused their attention on her. "What? We were all thinking the same thing."

"She's right," Bonesaw said. "Tinkers don't make stuff that does _nothing."_ She reached up to her shoulder and petted the spider-bot that lurked there; Jack was certain it arched what passed for a back into her stroking hand. "Isn't that right, sweetie?"

Jack nodded to concede the point. "True, but until we find out _what_ did it, and what it did, we can't worry about every tiny thing. And we can't stay here, on the off-chance that we _were_ deliberately targeted, and that was a ranging shot." Standing up, he briskly dusted off the seat of his pants. "So. No vehicles coming past to hijack, and I don't feel like doing much walking. Ideas for getting transportation?"

Bonesaw looked speculatively at her spider-bots, and Jack just _knew_ she was thinking of volunteering them to pull the bus like a sleigh. As oddly-appealing as that idea was, there was no way he could think of to make it work. A moment later it seemed she'd come to the same conclusion, because she shook her head.

Likewise, Burnscar signalled negation, as did Mannequin. But then Hatchet Face, who'd been sitting at the far end of the shelter so his power didn't interfere with theirs, spoke up unexpectedly. "This is gonna sound stupid," he said, raising his voice so they could hear him.

Jack waited, but it seemed that was all the bulky cape-killer had to say for the moment. "Yes …?" he prompted. "If it's a stupid idea but it works, then it's not a stupid idea."

After a moment of hesitation, Hatchet Face nodded. "The Flintstones. They've got a car that they move by pushing their feet against the road." He settled back down into the brooding silence he'd been employing up till now.

It was definitely an unusual idea, but as Jack mulled it over, he could see it working. All they needed was someone strong enough to provide the motive power.

"What? No!" Crawler backed off a couple of paces. "I'm not pushing any stupid bus."

He _was_ the intuitive choice, but Jack hadn't survived for so long by making the intuitive choice every time. "You don't have to," he assured Crawler. Turning his attention to the Siberian, he treated her to his most winning smile. "So how about it?"

She gave him a very unimpressed look.

* * *

 **Uber**

* * *

By the time they got back to base, L33t had at least stopped swearing. He inspected Uber's luck gun, and nodded. "Good," he said. "Secondary reservoir's loaded with bad luck. There'll be a percentage of loss, but I'll be able to charge mine almost to full with it. I didn't use all mine, but I should be able to get yours half-charged at least."

Uber had taken the time to do some thinking. "What's our next move?" he asked. "I'm thinking we pack our shit and get the fuck out of Dodge, at least until the Nine are gone." He gave his partner a firm nod, fully expecting him to go along with the plan.

"What? No." L33t looked incredulously at him. "Fuck that, bro. You saw what we did? We killed _Shatterbird."_ Turning to where the two packs were sitting on his worktable, he set about connecting them with odd-looking cables. "I'm not leaving town, not now."

"Yeah, we killed Shatterbird," Uber repeated. "And where there's Shatterbird, there's Jack Slash and the rest of the Nine. They'll want to know what happened to her, and they won't care who they ask or _how_ they ask." He shuddered, not even wanting to imagine being tortured for information by the likes of Jack Slash or Bonesaw. Or worse, being _recruited_ by them.

"And they haven't got the faintest fucking idea what's happened to her," L33t stated confidently. "If they did, we'd already be dead by now. Who's on their roster again?" Plugging a couple of heavy leads from the wall into the backpacks, he watched the gauges with satisfaction.

Reluctantly, Uber retrieved his phone and went on to the mobile version of PHO. From there, he accessed the information page on the Nine. "Jack Slash, of course," he reported. "The Siberian, Bonesaw, Mannequin … huh. Looks like Hatchet Face replaced Winter. Shatterbird, Burnscar and Crawler. Well, we can scratch Shatterbird off the list, anyway."

"So, seven left," L33t said, stepping away from the workbench and dusting off his hands. "You saw what happened to Shatterbird when we gave her a serious dose of bad luck. If we can do that to the rest of them, they'll die without even knowing why." He wandered over to the fridge and got himself an energy drink, then shook his head and put it back. "No, pass on that. I think I need some sleep."

"No shit, Sherlock," Uber retorted. "You've been up for more than twenty-four hours if I'm doing my math right. Is that what's gotten into you? Does too much caffeine and no sleep turn you into a suicidal idiot? Taking on the _Nine?_ For _fuck's_ sake."

L33t shook his head. "No, dude. This is all your fault. I think it's the luck you dosed me up with. It's not just good luck; I also get confident. _Really_ fucking confident."

"Yeah, you were kind of pussying out before I shot you, weren't you?" Uber facepalmed. "I should've left well enough alone. You do realise you're relying on bad luck to fuck over Crawler and the Siberian? Crawler regenerates from basically anything, and the Siberian ignores fucking _everything._ I don't think there's enough bad luck in the _world_ to fuck them up."

"We'll just have to see." Letting out a jaw-cracking yawn, L33t headed for his bedroom. "Get on PHO and spread the rumour that the Nine have been seen. It should make people more cautious. I'm gonna get my head down. If anything comes up, wake me." The door closed behind him, leaving Uber to scratch his head.

 _Damn, this is a side of him I've never seen before._

* * *

 **Jack Slash**

* * *

Settling himself into the driver's seat of the RV, Jack let off the handbrake and called back over his shoulder, "Okay, let's go."

Behind him, waist-deep in a hole that had been cored through the floor of the bus—really, they'd had any number of options for making such a hole, but Jack had chosen to let the Siberian do the deed—the Siberian took hold of the vehicle itself and made both it and the road beneath her impervious to damage. Then she started pushing. Jack was impressed despite himself; even though he had a good idea of the extent of her powers, it was still very cool to experience.

To unlock the steering, he turned the key to light up the dash, and watched the GPS come online. Sure enough, it had them travelling south and west instead of north and east, and its audible notifications were both irritating and unintelligible. Idly, he stabbed at the screen with his knife, wanting to hear and see it die a fitting death. His knife blade bounced off the flimsy plastic, reminding himself that he could damage no part of the bus while the Siberian's power was in play. With an irritated grunt, he found the switch to flip it off.

To pass the time, he turned on the radio. The local radio channels weren't hard to find, and he began to listen to them, skipping between stations to try to find local breaking news. Shatterbird still hadn't turned up at the shelter by the time they were ready to go, so there was half a chance that she'd gone into the city to start causing problems. She really did enjoy using her scream to announce their arrival. In Jack's opinion, it was getting a little boring; they needed to change things up. Perhaps have Crawler destroy a local landmark?

There was nothing on the radio to indicate her presence, and looking out through the windshield he couldn't see columns of rising smoke. In fact, it looked like another boring Saturday afternoon. _As soon as we get into the city, I'll have Burnscar set something on fire,_ he decided. _Then we'll take out the emergency responders. That'll give Shatterbird something to home in on. We'll disappear before the capes show, then pop up somewhere else._ It was a tried and true formula.

With a sigh, he began flipping channels again. The first he hit was a talk show of some sort. _"To all my listeners, this is Frank Webster of Brockton Saturday Afternoon! Welcome—"_ This was the sort of guy who needed a knife to the face. Then again, _most_ people he met needed a knife to the face. It was a very common condition, and one which he was pleased to be able to cater for. He changed channels again.

"— _to Brockton Bay—"_ A dull, dreary voice, relating some kind of historical documentary. Ugh. Flip again.

"— _Jack Slash, leader of the Slaughterhouse Nine—"_ That sounded like an interesting channel; he might come back to that one, once he'd checked out the others.

"— _you're gonna—"_ The chirpy, irritating tone grated on him like nothing else. Flip.

"— _die here!"_

What. The. _Fuck?_

Sitting up in the seat, he stared at the radio. He'd gotten death threats many times—including from the PRT—but never from a random sampling of radio channels. "Did anyone hear that?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

"Hear what?" asked Burnscar, rousing from a doze. Across from her, Bonesaw was obviously engrossed in modifying one of her spider-bots while the Siberian busily pushed the RV. Mannequin was in power-down mode, and Crawler seemed to be asleep. Hatchet Face was riding at the very rear of the RV, where his power would only interfere with Crawler's.

"Never mind," Jack said, turning back to the radio. It was still burbling away with some kind of public service announcement, so he flicked back to the channel that had mentioned him by name.

"— _don't say you weren't warned. Next on our list of 'Most Despised Men in America', we have—"_

Reaching out, he shut the radio off. That had been too creepy for words, and he'd had _Grey Boy_ in the Nine for years, right up until Glaistig Uaine had 'harvested' the kid's powers and then had herself shut up in the Birdcage.

The rest of the trip into the city passed in silence, broken only by Crawler's monumental snores.

* * *

As they entered the city limits, Jack looked around for a place where they could stop and get out without attracting undue notice. An overpass up ahead caught his eye; it was perfect. Not only was it out of the public eye, but they'd have a reasonable view in all directions. "Stopping just up here," he called out.

As the vehicle rolled to a halt, he thought he heard thunder again, but then he realised the sound was coming from _within_ the RV. Crawler's latest meal was finally starting to catch up with him, which made it even more imperative that they stop and get out, at least for a while. He set the handbrake, then climbed out. Burnscar roused herself and climbed out after him, followed by Bonesaw. They wandered after him as he headed down to the rear of the RV, where Crawler was just backing his bulky body out through the makeshift entry hatch they'd jury-rigged together.

"Okay, Burnscar, this next bit's for you," he said. "We're gonna find someplace important and I want you to set it on fire." He watched her eyes, alert for any signs of pushback. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

"Set it on fire?" She seemed reluctant, and he recalled that she hadn't used her powers for some little while. "Do I have to?"

Fortunately, he'd done this dance before. "Well, you don't _have_ to. Nobody's forcing you. But you _want_ to, don't you?" In her eyes, he could see the impact his words were making. The depressive was receding and the pyromaniac was coming out to play.

"Well, I _guess,"_ she muttered, and held her hands out, cupped together. Behind her, Crawler dropped heavily to the asphalt. And then there was a sound like the loudest, most raucous air-horn Jack had ever heard. What flooded over Jack then was the most horrifically intense stench he'd ever encountered, but then it got worse. Desperately, he opened his mouth to tell Burnscar to stand down, but he choked on the miasma, cutting off his words. And then there was fire. All the fire in the world.

 _ **BOOOOM**_

* * *

Consciousness slowly returned, and with it the awareness of pain. Jack kept his eyes shut, not sure what was going on and unwilling to betray his state to potential enemies. Then he heard a familiar voice.

"How are you feeling, Mister Jack?"

He groaned. Every inch of his body hurt. The skin on his face felt tightly-stretched, as if he'd gotten a bad sunburn. Inching his eyes open, he looked up into Bonesaw's worried eyes. "What … happened?" he managed, despite a severe case of dry-mouth.

"Crawler, um, farted," reported Bonesaw, giving a nervous giggle. "And when Burnscar lit her fire, she ignited a cloud of it. It … um … exploded." She put a straw between his lips and he sipped at it. Cool water filled his mouth. As he inhaled through his nostrils, he felt the telltale pull of stitches in his chest, and he wondered just how badly he'd been injured. "I was knocked out, and when I came to, Burnscar was gone. Well, mostly." She wrinkled her nose. "Crawler and Hatchet Face have been making jokes ever since."

He tried to sit up, and discovered that he had a massive headache. But he persisted anyway, realising halfway through the endeavour that he was resting on one of the cramped beds in the RV. "That's got to be wrong," he rasped. "Even as bad as that explosion was, it shouldn't have vaporised her."

"I don't think it did, but it definitely wounded her badly, maybe even killed her," Bonesaw said. "You were hurt real bad, and she was a lot closer to the explosion than you. We found an arm; I think the rest of her was blown off the overpass. Crawler said he saw a garbage truck driving away down the road. She might've fallen in the back."

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. _What are the odds?_ That Bonesaw could've pulled Burnscar back from beyond the brink of death, he had no doubt. But the problem was, there was no body to work with, and they didn't have a Mover to go find it. _Or maybe we do_. "Has Shatterbird shown up?"

Solemnly, she shook her head. "No. And it's been a couple of hours. What do you want us to do?"

With a sudden horrified suspicion, Jack reached up to his face. Not only were his eyebrows gone, but his beard had also been scorched off his face, as had all the hair from the front of his head. "Tell the others to get the RV somewhere safe, then we'll camp down for the night. I'll make new plans then."

"Okay, Mister Jack." Bonesaw disappeared from sight.

Jack flopped back on to the bed and groaned. _I hope nobody_ _ **ever**_ _hears about this incident. We'd never live it down. And now we're down_ _ **three**_ _members._

Sleep was unfortunately all too long in coming.

* * *

 **Hebert Household  
Danny**

* * *

Danny looked up from the paper as Taylor stirred the casserole in the kitchen. "Hey, have you heard about this National Chicken Festival thing?" he called out.

She came to the kitchen door, still holding the wooden spoon. "Um, I don't _think_ so," she said uncertainly. "What's it about ... no, forget I asked. When's it happening?"

"Monday afternoon, apparently," he replied, rechecking the date. "Want to come with me and check it out? We'll make it a father-daughter day." And afterward, he could check on the Dockworkers doing roadworks in the area. If they did a good job, they'd be more likely to be hired again by Don Hammett in the future.

"Um, sure." She shrugged, then grinned. "Sounds like it could be interesting."

He gave her an encouraging smile in return. _"That's_ my girl."

* * *

End of Part Thirteen


	14. Chapter 14

**It Gets Worse**

* * *

Part Fourteen: Whatever Happened To …?

* * *

 _[A/N: this chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]_

* * *

 **Tuesday, January 4, 2011  
Museum of Making Music  
Carlsbad, California**

* * *

The player piano was a masterpiece of its kind. It was cared for almost obsessively. Also, because the curator had a strong belief that instruments that were not used deteriorated with age, it was played on a regular basis. However, not even the sharp-eyed caretaker spotted, late one evening, a dozen caterpillars that had somehow entered the building. One by one, they inched their way up into the body of the instrument, selecting places that were both out of sight and would not interfere with the playing of the piano.

Then they attached themselves to the wood and began to shed their outer skin to let their chrysalises form.

* * *

 **Saturday Evening, January 15, 2011  
L33t**

* * *

The sound of laughter woke L33t. Not just ordinary laughter, either. Rollicking, belly-deep guffaws. The type of laughter that Uber came out with when he was watching a Charlie Chaplin special, or perhaps Laurel & Hardy. But why he was laughing _now,_ L33t had no idea.

Grumpily, he pulled himself out of bed and stumbled out into the main living area. The computer chair was a little way off to the side of the keyboard while Uber was lying on the floor in front of it, holding his ribs as he rolled from side to side. Shaking his head, L33t came closer, peering at the computer screen to see what Uber had downloaded this time. To his puzzlement, there was just a cityscape; specifically, a view of the _Brockton Bay_ cityscape. "What the hell?" he muttered.

"Snitch!" cackled Uber. "Snitch got out!" He went back to his uncontrolled merriment, but he'd given L33t the clue as to what had happened. The feed was indeed from the Snitch, which was sitting innocently on its docking cradle, but the time-date stamp was from about the time they'd been returning from Captain's Hill. Pulling the chair back to the computer, he sat down and started an analysis of what was going on.

A few minutes later, he thought he had an answer. At some point, there'd been a spike in the system. Checking the log, he thought back, and narrowed the time down. It was, he surmised eventually, within five minutes of the time that Shatterbird had been removed from the equation by way of lightning strike.

 _Wait a minute._ He hadn't _seen_ where the lightning struck, but it wasn't hard to call up a geological survey map. And there it was; right in the zone where the lightning had fried Shatterbird, an electricity line made its way across the flank of Captain's Hill. _And what's the bet it connects into the line that we steal power from?_ He didn't even bother making a wager on that one.

Looking things over, it hadn't done any damage, but it had managed through some weird coincidence to precisely emulate the signal for the Snitch to engage its autonomous mode and go data-gathering. _Coincidence,_ he wondered, _or luck?_ Glancing suspiciously at where the guns were busy exchanging luck energy, he entered the command for it to replay whatever it had recorded. Maybe then he'd have an idea of why Uber was still laughing like a hyena on crack.

At first, nothing seemed to be happening. The Snitch had taken a meandering path through the city, apparently going unnoticed by one and all. But then it had fixated on a beat-up looking RV that was just cresting an overpass near the Trainyards. It was odd, he thought, that he didn't hear any noise from the vehicle's engine as it pulled to a halt. Any curiosity about that slammed to a screeching halt of its own as the door opened and Jack Slash himself emerged. Along with Burnscar, he had headed down to the back of the vehicle, where the rear end was in the process of hinging upward to allow first Hatchet Face and then Crawler to exit. The Snitch zoomed in as the group tightened up, and then it happened.

The explosion caught L33t by surprise and he flinched backward as Jack Slash was flung one way and Burnscar another. Hatchet Face was sent cartwheeling down the overpass, while his axe spun off to the side. As luck would have it, Burnscar had been pitched almost over the edge of the overpass. She managed to grab a handhold at the last second, but then the axe came out of nowhere and sheared through her upper arm. The last L33t saw of her, she was draped across a load of trash in the back of a truck that had just driven under the overpass, her one good arm hanging out the side as though she were trying to flag down a lift.

"Wait, _what_ just happened?" L33t mumbled when there were no more explosions forthcoming. Had someone else decided to take a run at the Nine when he wasn't looking? To his disappointment, Jack Slash appeared to be alive, if somewhat injured. As the Siberian picked Slash up, the Snitch lost interest and turned away from the scene. L33t reran the action to just before the explosion, and watched carefully.

It was on the third run-through that he identified the loud abrasive noise that came through just before the explosion, which started him giggling. Now that he knew what had happened, he could see the fire in Burnscar's hand igniting the cloud of flammable gas that Crawler had just added to the atmosphere. There was even a small mushroom cloud. He watched it again, and this time he started laughing as soon as Crawler got out of the RV.

"Rule number one!" whooped Uber. "Don't light Crawler's farts!"

That was when L33t fell out of the chair as well.

* * *

 **Palanquin Nightclub  
Faultline**

* * *

"Found the problem, ma'am," reported the electrician. He was an older guy with an incipient gut and thinning hair on top, but everything Melanie had seen told her that he was good at his job. "Roof developed a water leak during that rain we had. An inch to the left or right and it wouldn't have been a problem. But it fell right where something was chewing on the wiring; rat, probably. Then it somehow managed to short across to another wire, which knocked out the lights for the entire building. Never seen it happen like that before. Anyway, easy fixed. We'll be out in under an hour."

"Oh, good," she replied, giving him a genuine smile. As a person who prized intelligence and competence in her own people, she liked seeing it in others, especially those doing work for her. Also, if what he was saying was true, the club would be opening on time, saving her a lot of money. "I'll let you get back to it, then."

"Ma'am," he agreed. Turning, he left her office. She leaned back in her chair and sighed in mild aggravation. This sort of thing, even if it didn't disrupt the smooth running of her club, still unsettled members of her Crew. Elle was affected more than the others; the girl's psyche was fragile, and she didn't take well to abrupt changes in her surroundings. Her power tended to act out when that happened, reshaping the world around her to fit her mental state.

She also wouldn't have been happy with seeing tradesmen tramping through the private areas of Palanquin in their quest to locate the source of the fault that had plunged the building into darkness, so she'd sent Gregor and Newter out to take her for a stroll. This had the double benefit of giving her a slow, gentle transition from one place to another, and of keeping her moving so that her power couldn't get a grip on the local surroundings. Emily had opted to take a nap instead, which was also perfectly fine. She, at least, didn't tend to alter her environment when she was agitated.

Melanie's laptop still had charge, which meant she could work on the books until the power came back on. Sitting forward again, she booted it up and started going through the spreadsheets, checking paper receipts by the light coming in through her office window. The work was slow and tedious but it had to be done, and she prided herself in getting things right the first time.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, an almost subliminal hum heralded the lights turning themselves back on. With a sigh, she sat back in the office chair, eyes going to the screens that provided a backdrop to her laptop. They came online one by one, showing static which was then replaced by imagery from her security camera system. Carefully, she checked each image for the subtle markers she'd put into place to ensure that the footage wasn't being looped or replaced with an earlier recording; it wasn't likely, but she didn't want to depend on 'likely' for her personal security.

Nothing showed up, which was both expected and gratifying at the same time. She could clearly see the electricians finishing up, so she stood up from the chair. While she absolutely appreciated their workmanship and efficiency, she also wanted them out of the club once they were done. Just as she was about to step around the desk, however, movement on another screen caught her eye.

A moment later, she relaxed slightly; it was just Newter, Gregor and Elle returning from their stroll. Their timing, she had to admit, was excellent. Or had she left the sign on? That would've been a beacon signalling them it was time to return.

But then she spotted something else; specifically, a limp form cradled in Gregor's brawny arms. As obese as Gregor appeared, he was quite strong for his size, and the young woman afforded him no burden at all. A frown creased her forehead; what _had_ they gotten themselves into? Newter may be irresponsible from time to time, but Gregor's phlegmatic nature provided a good check for him. Melanie just couldn't see them kidnapping a girl off the street … well, for _any_ reason, actually. The sight of the woman's left arm, missing from mid-bicep down with the stump encased in one of Gregor's trademark slime-blobs, only made things all the more confusing. _I have_ _ **got**_ _to get to the bottom of this._ But first, there were the electricians to deal with.

* * *

 **Gregor the Snail**

* * *

"Okay, you get her comfortable and I'll go tell the boss," Newter said, stepping around Gregor to allow him to place their involuntary house-guest on the bed in the spare room. Elle watched from the side, though what was going on behind her vague expression, Gregor had no idea.

"That would be a good idea," Faultline said from right behind Gregor. From Newter's startled _eep,_ he hadn't heard her approaching, either. "I'm sure this is a very interesting story. Don't leave out any details."

Leaning over the bed, Gregor carefully placed Burnscar—Mimi, as Elle had called her—on the bed. He made sure the injured arm wasn't being pushed up against anything, then checked her pulse again. As before, it was weak but steady.

Behind him, Newter took a deep breath. "So we went for a walk, like you said. And it was a good idea. Elle was enjoying herself, as much as she enjoys anything, and it was a really nice day out. Barely anyone stared at us, or took pictures even."

"Granted." Faultline's voice was steady. As he pulled the covers up over Mimi's lower body, Gregor thought he heard Newter gulp. "Skip to the part where you bring an unconscious girl into my club."

Gregor turned around and faced up to Faultline. "It was very unusual," he said, drawing her attention to him. "We were walking with Elle when a garbage truck stopped near us at the lights. It was Elle who saw the arm hanging over the side."

"Garbage truck?" For the first time, it seemed that Faultline was on the back foot. "What was she doing in a _garbage truck?"_ She stepped to the side so that she could look at the woman in the bed. "Wait a minute … is that _Burnscar?"_

"Her name is Mimi," Elle said unexpectedly. She had her hands clasped in front of her, and whatever she was looking at didn't seem to exist in the same reality as everyone else. Of course, that wasn't unusual for her. "She was in the asylum with me. She liked talking to me."

Gregor noted a tracery of vines that was beginning to grow around the edges of the ceiling. Tiny buds of flowers were sprouting here and there; while there were thorns, they were small and unobtrusive as yet. As far as he could tell, this meant that Elle felt secure and unthreatened, or at least as unthreatened as she ever felt.

"But you didn't know it was her at the time," Faultline said. "You couldn't." She seemed to be trying to convince herself as much as Elle.

"I spent a lot of time looking at her hands," Elle replied. "I didn't like looking at her expressions. She was very unhappy a lot of the time." Moving to the bed, she sat down on the edge and took Mimi's hand in hers. "I didn't like her very much then, but now I understand how she was thinking. She didn't have any friends then. Maybe it's why she did what she did."

 _Joined the Slaughterhouse Nine,_ Gregor understood. He knew what it was like to be alone in all the world without even memories of his past, of his family. It would've been totally foreign to his nature to have become a member of such a murderous group, but perhaps Mimi hadn't seen another option.

"She made Gregor stand in the road so the truck wouldn't keep going, while I got Sleeping Beauty there out of the truck," Newter explained; to Gregor's relief, he chose to leave out the minor detail of how Gregor had glued the truck's tyres to the road when the guy had tried to drive on anyway. The blobs of slime would dissolve … eventually. "Dunno how she lost her arm, but by a sheer fluke she fell so it jammed up against a mattress someone tossed out. Stopped her from bleeding out. Lucky for her, huh?"

"Less lucky for us," Faultline said flatly. "In case you hadn't realised, this means the rest of the Nine are in town. They're likely to come looking for her, and I doubt very much they'll be so grateful for you for saving her life that they'll leave us alone, much less _alive."_

"So we do not tell anyone," Gregor said, surprising even himself. "If we do not advertise it, nobody will know she is here."

"The big guy's got a point," Newter agreed. "And hey, what if she ended up like that because of a disagreement? What if they're out to kill her? If we just throw her out, she might die, or they might backtrack her here, and come after us for helping her."

* * *

 **Faultline**

* * *

While Melanie took care to run her Crew with a light hand, it was well understood that she gave the orders and they followed them. Sometimes, however, when they dug their heels in, she knew it was time to back off and let them have what they wanted. This seemed to be such a time. Why they were intent on saving Burnscar, she wasn't entirely certain, but that seemed to be the way of things.

"Okay," she said. "Fine. She can stay. But someone keeps their eye on her at all times. I mean twenty-four-seven. And once she wakes up, if she acts out, we deal with it. The last thing I want is this place going up in flames."

Elle didn't react, but Gregor nodded. "Thank you," he said.

"Sure thing, boss," Newter added. "I'll go tell Emily about this so she doesn't get surprised by it."

"I'm pleased to see that _someone_ around here is being afforded that courtesy," Melanie observed dryly.

"I was going to come tell you!" protested the orange-skinned boy. "Just as soon as we had her settled!"

Melanie raised an eyebrow. (It had taken hours of practice in front of a mirror, but the effect was worth it). "Just so we're clear, begging for forgiveness _isn't_ easier than asking for permission, not around here. You had a phone; you could've called me. You didn't. If she acts out, this is on you. Got it?"

"Got it," mumbled Newter, looking and sounding suitably chastised. Ducking his head, he slunk out the door.

"All right, that's settled." Melanie dusted her hands off. "Gregor, get her off that bed. She's going to need blood expanders and some sort of dressing for that arm once your gunk dissolves. Also, we're going to need to check her over for other injuries. It'll be much easier to do all this in the sickbay than here." Both Elle and Gregor stared at her. She clapped her hands briskly. "Well, come on. She's not going to treat _herself."_

Feeling once more in command of the situation, she led the way down to the sickbay. Fortunately, it was her practice to keep it well-stocked for situations like this one. Barring complications beyond Melanie's capacity to treat, Burnscar would survive and recover.

What happened _then_ would be up to her.

* * *

 **The Dallon Household  
Amy**

* * *

"You are _not_ coming in the house like that." Carol Dallon's voice was firm. She looked Vicky's somewhat-multicoloured form up and down with an expression of mild disbelief. "How did this even _happen?"_

Vicky, standing on the front doorstep of the Dallon household, on to which she was dripping slowly-congealing paint, looked away with a sheepish expression. Amy, who was miraculously untouched and standing a little away from her sister, cleared her throat while trying to hold back a smirk. "Well, there was this dumpster—"

"Ames, I got this," Vicky said hastily. "Mom, I was out with Amy and we happened to see, uh, some kid trying to move a dumpster. So I went over and asked him if I could help. He said his dog was stuck behind it, and I could hear it whining, so I picked the dumpster up."

"Get to the part where you get doused by paint," Carol suggested pointedly.

Amy, finding it even harder not to laugh now, obliged. "Well, we didn't notice at the time that the dumpster was behind a hardware store that sold a lot of paint. So I'm guessing that when they throw display cans out, they don't always make sure the lids are on tight."

Carol frowned. "I don't think that's the case. If I recall correctly, coloured paint is only made up once the customer chooses the colour. If they mix too much, they have to dispose of the excess in dumpsters with 'toxic waste' markings all over them. Did this one have those markings? If not, we might have a lawsuit in the making."

"I'm not sure," Vicky confessed. "I was kinda distracted, by the, uh, the dog whining. I just wanted to get it out, y'know?" She put on a good show, but she wasn't fooling Amy. It had been obvious at the time what Vicky had been distracted by.

Still, she had to stand up for Vicky in this. "I think there might have been, but there were a lot of gang tags on it." She shrugged. "It did look a bit different from normal dumpsters, but I didn't think anything about it."

Carol seemed to buy it. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes in what looked like mild pain. "I can't leave you alone for even a moment, can I?" She averted her eyes from Vicky's garishly-coloured hair and clothing, causing Amy to immediately assume a solemn countenance. "What _ever_ possessed you to hold it over your head, anyway?"

Vicky, wearing what had until not so long ago been a fashionable top with matching skirt, looked sheepish. "There were some trash cans beside it that I didn't want to knock over, so I lifted it straight up. I made sure the lid was shut and everything!" Amy wasn't sure whether Vicky was more annoyed at the fact that Amy had laughed all the way back home, or that the outfit was comprehensively ruined.

"And you didn't happen to notice that this dumpster was behind a _paint store?"_ Carol shook her head, then looked suspiciously at Amy as the latter turned a snicker into a cough. Apparently deciding there was nothing to worry about there, she turned her attention back to Vicky. "Or consider that there might be something _liquid_ in it? Why did you tilt it, anyway?"

"I didn't _know!"_ wailed Vicky. "It was just easier to lift it that way!" She demonstrated, with one hand low and one high. Naturally, as she raised her arms, the high hand came back over her head while the low one stayed farther out. "The first thing I knew about it was when it started pouring all over me!" She lifted up clumps of her formerly-glorious blonde hair, now a matted mass sticky with red, blue and a mottled purple-brown shade of paint. Her clothing had fared even worse; it was actually difficult to tell what were the original colours and what had been added in the involuntary paint-bath.

"Well, at least the kid got his dog back," Amy added, unable to contain herself any longer.

"Thank you, Amy, but you're _not helping,"_ Carol scolded. "Don't you have something better to do?"

Amy decided that it wouldn't be the best of ideas to point out that Carol was the one who'd kept her outside while castigating Vicky, so she edged past her sister and stepmother and into the house. Doing her homework while lying back on her bed and listening to music was a lot more relaxing than listening to Carol read out Vicky, anyway. Especially as she could giggle to the mental image of Vicky's face when the paint hit her. Vicky was her sister, and she loved her dearly—maybe a little _too_ dearly—but slapstick was still slapstick.

* * *

 **Undersiders' Base**

* * *

Brian was still chuckling when he got back to the loft. Brutus pulled at the lead, anxious to get back upstairs to familiar territory, and Brian leaned down to unclip it from his collar. He climbed the spiral staircase one step at a time, losing ground steadily to the dog's scrabbling paws, but he didn't care about that.

Rachel was waiting at the top, leaning on the wall. She was still favouring her twisted ankle—the result of stepping on the soap in the shower—but from the way she was walking on it anyway, it was definitely on the mend. With any luck, it wouldn't hamper them when they scouted Lung's casino on Monday. "What happened to him?" she demanded, kneeling down so she could run her hands through the happily-panting dog's fur. "He stinks!"

 _Yeah, see if I offer to walk your dog any more when you can't do it,_ he almost said. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself. "He was doing well, so I took him off the lead," he said. "But then he saw a rat and went after it. Got stuck behind a dumpster. I tried to shift it, but it wouldn't move."

Lisa came through from the kitchen, took one look at him, and her eyes widened. Slowly, she sat down on the sofa beside Alec, who took no notice of anything except his on-screen character. "Go on," she invited.

"You're not gonna believe this, but Glory Girl and someone I guess was Panacea showed up," Brian went on. The identification of the blonde teen had been easy, but Panacea's face was largely hidden when she was in costume. Nonetheless, Lisa began to giggle. Rachel looked blank. Alec lifted his head at the mention of the superheroes' names. "They were in civvies, but when she heard Brutus whining, Glory Girl lifted the dumpster out of the way like it was a cardboard box." He began to snicker; Lisa, somehow divining what he was going to say next, started to giggle. "It was behind a paint store. There was some paint loose in the bottom. She started showing off how strong she was, and the paint got out." He paused for effect. "All over _her."_

Rachel's eyes widened, and she gave a snort of laughter. Even the normally-emotionless Alec let out a bark of amusement before going back to his game. Lisa, giggling helplessly, sprawled on her end of the sofa. Brian sat down in one of the armchairs and shook his head. "The look on her face was _amazing._ Even Panacea couldn't help laughing too. And the best bit? I think Glory Girl wanted to get my phone number."

Howling with laughter, Lisa fell off the sofa.

* * *

 **The Dallon Household (a little later)  
Amy**

* * *

Amy was just rechecking her homework answers when Vicky stormed into her bedroom in a tightly-belted bathrobe, scrubbed pink with her hair hanging damp and stringy, but clean. "Fat lot of good _you_ were," the blonde announced huffily. "I didn't see you standing up to defend me." Dragging the chair away from Amy's computer desk, she sat in it backward, crossing her arms over the backrest and resting her chin on them.

"I _did_ try to defend you," Amy protested, doing her best to keep her face straight even while a giggle threatened to sneak through. "I told her that the kid got his dog back. And I _didn't_ point out that the 'kid' was about eighteen, and had abs to die for. Or that it wasn't even his dog, that he was walking it for a friend. Or that you were hamming it up and showing off for him." She had to admit, tossing the dumpster into the air and catching it on one end had been impressive. What had been even more impressive was the deluge of paint that hit Vicky about half a second after the dumpster had slapped back on to her palms, directly over her head.

The dumpster had ended up at the other end of the alleyway. That was something else they weren't going to be telling Carol.

Vicky rolled her eyes loftily. "That's all sister stuff. We should be doing that shit automatically. And I still don't see why you couldn't make the paint just … just dry up and flake off me or something. You got it off my arms so I could carry you home." She shot Amy an accusing glare. "Or why you had to laugh so much."

"I _told_ you," Amy said patiently. "I could just about get it off your arms because nobody's gonna notice if you don't have any hair there. But if I worked up something to take it off the rest of you, your hair and clothes were at risk."

"Screw my clothes," Vicky retorted crudely. "They were a dead loss anyway. And isn't Mom riding my ass about _that."_

Amy sighed and rolled her eyes. "And what would she have done if you'd shown up on the doorstep wearing nothing but a layer of paint because your hair and clothes had been _dissolved_ by the bugs I made? Oh, wait, not even the paint." She gestured at Vicky. "Basically, whatever you used just now was probably the best idea." In addition, she didn't like to show off with her powers past the basic 'heal people' in case the public got the (correct) idea that she was far more versatile than she let on.

"Paint thinner from the garden shed," Vicky said sourly. "Stinks, and it burned my scalp a little. Had to shampoo and condition it three times, and it's still a bit stringy." She ran her hand through her hair, and made a face. "It's probably gonna fall out anyway, with all this abuse." Suddenly, a speculative look crossed her face, and she jumped to her feet. Without saying another word, she dashed out of the room.

"Well, that happened," mumbled Amy, and went back to checking her work.

She didn't get far with it, as Vicky was back in less than a minute, bearing a pair of sewing scissors. Amy didn't have to wonder long what they were for, because Vicky demonstrated immediately, by holding a large hank of hair away from her head and hacking away at it with the scissors. Large and sharp, they were designed more for cutting cloth, but they made good headway on her hair. Clump after clump fell away under Vicky's inexpert but enthusiastic attack.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're _doing?"_ shouted Amy, sitting bolt upright on the bed. She admired many things about Victoria, but her sister's hair was near the top of the list. Long, with bouncing golden curls, it was everything Amy wished her own hair was.

"Well, _duh,"_ Vicky said as she angled her head for another attack on her hair. "If I cut all my hair off and you regrow it for me, I don't have to worry about getting around like the Bride of Frankenstein for the next few days."

Amy shook her head violently. "I am _not_ growing you a whole new head of hair just so you can get around having stringy hair for a couple of days! Jeez!" Earlier, she'd regretted laughing at Vicky quite so much. Now, she was repenting of her regret.

"What? But you've _got_ to regrow it!" Vicky stopped cutting, the scissors halfway through severing more of her hair. She looked like a half-shorn sheep, only messier. Her expression was stricken. "I can't go to school like _this!"_

The bedroom door opened, and Carol entered. "What's all this shouting—Victoria _Dallon!_ What in heaven's name are you _doing?"_ She stared open-mouthed at where Vicky stood, golden hair littering the floor around her feet and incriminating shears in her hand. "What have you done to your _hair?"_

"She's cutting it so I'll regrow it for her." Amy's voice was flat. She was throwing Vicky to the wolves on this one, and not regretting it for an instant. _"Without_ consulting with me first."

The argument that followed was short, sharp and not without the occasional burst from Vicky's emotion aura. Amy didn't have to say a word, as Carol handled all the heavy lifting. She read out Vicky in excruciating detail, explaining how Amy's power was _not_ a toy, and how cutting her own hair without permission, much less oversight, was irresponsible, dangerous and downright immature.

"But what am I gonna _do?"_ wailed Vicky, looking and sounding much less sure of herself. She gestured at her head, from which hair hung in mismatched clumps; if Amy were to be honest with herself, Vicky looked more like a horror movie reject than a vivacious teenage superhero and darling of the city. "I can't go out like _this!_ What'll people _think?"_

Which was the first smart thing she'd said, Amy decided. While Vicky almost certainly meant it in a personal sense, Carol's eyes narrowed in thought. "It certainly wouldn't look good for New Wave's image for you to show up like this, or not show up at all," she decided. "Amy, can you neaten it up for her? Make it so it's not so frightful, and can grow out on its own?"

Amy put aside her homework. "Sure," she said. "Vicky, gimme your hand." Swinging her legs over the side of her bed, she reached out toward her sister.

"Can't you just make it, you know, back to the original length?" pleaded Vicky. "It took me _years_ to get it this long."

"No." Amy spoke without thinking; with a shock of surprise, she realised that Carol had said exactly the same thing at the same time. She glanced at her stepmother, wondering that they'd actually managed to see eye to eye on something for once. Carol wasn't returning the glance, so Amy cleared her throat. "If Mom says no, she means no." Taking Vicky's hand, she concentrated. "Gonna need you to turn your head so I can see what I'm doing."

It wasn't a short process, but as Vicky turned her head from side to side, Amy had her hair grow out in patches to match what was already there. Now and again she cheated, reversing the process to shorten some of the longer bits, until it was all around the same length in a kind of curly pageboy bob.

"That's the best I can do," she decided, releasing Vicky's hand. "Gonna need a hairdresser to fix it the rest of the way." Tilting her head, she looked the result over critically; for a first effort, she decided, it wasn't too bad. At least Vicky didn't look like she'd been attacked by a crazed sheep-shearer or something.

Evidently, Carol thought the same. "It'll do," she allowed grudgingly. "Monday afternoon, Victoria, you're going to a hairdresser I know. Get it properly shaped and trimmed. In the meantime, keep it brushed and shampooed." She pointed an imperious finger at her daughter. "And don't _ever_ do anything as stupid as this again." Then she indicated the floor, where the evidence of Vicky's indiscretion was spread everywhere in golden strands. "And clean this up."

"No, Mom," sighed Vicky. "Yes, Mom." She waited until the door closed behind her mother to add in an undertone, "Three bags full, Mom." For the first time in Amy's memory, she added a rude gesture toward the door.

"Well, it _was_ kind of your fault," Amy pointed out, lying back on the bed. "You should've checked with me before you started hacking at your hair." She smothered a giggle as Vicky wrinkled her nose.

"If you'd just gone ahead and done it," her sister began, then reconsidered as Amy shook her head emphatically. "Okay, fine. Monday afternoon, after the hairdresser, we're going shopping. There's a place near the Forsberg Gallery that has some of the new fashions." She pointed at Amy. "As in, you're going shopping _with_ me, and you're going to buy at least one outfit."

"Nope. No way." Amy shook her head again, her frizzy brown hair bouncing around her head. "You can't make me spend my money. Anyway, I'm saving up." It wasn't much right now, but by the time she reached college age, Amy intended to be able to move out on her own. _Well, Vicky can come with if she wants._

"Okay, fine. You're gonna _try on_ at least one outfit," Vicky said by way of compromise. "And then we're gonna hit this new paleo place I've heard about for lunch."

"Paleo. Right." Amy wasn't thrilled by the idea, but if it got Vicky away from the concept of making Amy pay for an outfit she didn't want and was never likely to wear, she'd deal with it.

"Hey, it's healthy." Vicky sat back down in the chair, then scooted it closer and poked Amy in the arm. "You could probably deal with a bit of healthy food. And you're paying. Consider it payback for not getting that guy's number for me after the paint thing. And for getting me in trouble with Mom."

Given that both episodes had (in Amy's opinion) been Vicky's fault, Amy didn't feel overly guilty. In any case, she had … not so much of an objection, but more of a query. "Why are you even getting numbers off hunky strangers, anyway? I thought you were with Dean?"

"Dean?" Vicky sniffed imperiously and made a dismissive motion. "Dean's ancient history. He's on the junk pile. I'm not talking to him any more."

Which meant they'd had yet _another_ fight. Amy sighed. While the guy's abs _had_ been pretty impressive (though Amy had been more intrigued by how he got his cornrows so neat) it would probably have been a bad idea to get his number. Dean and Vicky, no matter how much Amy might hope otherwise, would always get back together. She'd lost count of the number of breakups and makeups their relationship had gone through since they first started dating.

"Yeah, yeah," she said with a snort of her own. _"That'll_ last." She pointed at the floor. "Anyway, I believe you've got some cleaning up to do?"

This time, Vicky gave _her_ the rude gesture.

* * *

 **Sunday Morning, January 16, 2011  
Slaughterhouse Nine (now Six)  
Jack Slash**

* * *

"Ow." Jack tried to move again, and regretted it. Again. "Ow." While he felt a lot better than he had the night before, all things were relative. What he _actually_ felt like was crap that had been gently warmed over. Or caught in the middle of a biologically-induced fuel-air explosion. As much as anyone could call what Crawler did 'biological'.

"Don't move," Bonesaw scolded him. "Your broken bones are still knitting, and I'm making sure the skin grafts take properly. You need to lie still for another day or so, but then you'll be fine."

"Has Shatterbird shown up yet?" Jack asked. "Or Burnscar?" The two capes weren't the heaviest hitters for the Nine, and they could always be replaced—as far as Jack was concerned, every member of the Nine apart from himself was expendable—but their abilities were very useful for spreading chaos. Aside from him, the Nine was now devoid of Blasters.

"We haven't seen either one," Bonesaw said as she checked him over. "Nobody knows where Shatterbird could be, and if Burnscar was unconscious when she fell into the garbage truck, she'd bleed out before she ever regained consciousness. There's been nothing on TV either."

"Okay." It was more of a grunt than anything. "We need to scout out the city. Two teams of two. You stay here. Crawler and Siberian, and Mannequin and Hatchet Face. Hammer and anvil." He didn't bother to explain why he was splitting them into those pairs. Mannequin was a Tinker, so it wouldn't bother him if he got too close to Hatchet Face. Crawler and Siberian, on the other hand, were the closest thing he'd ever seen to being an unstoppable force. There was nothing in Brockton Bay that could stand up to the pair of them for any length of time.

'Hammer and anvil' was a ploy they'd worked out. The four of them would travel in a rough square, the partners in each pairing keeping in sight of one another. When they saw a prospective victim, they'd herd them into the middle of the square. The resultant fight would be extremely brief and brutal.

"Oh, goody!" Bonesaw bounced on her feet and clapped her hands. "I'll make sure they bring back any capes they find. It's been _ages_ since I had anyone to play with." Which meant, Jack knew, to dissect and investigate the inner secrets of their powers, then build yet another hybrid monstrosity out of what remained.

He mustered a proud smile as a tear lingered in the corner of his eye. _They grow up so fast._ "That's my poppet."

"I'll go tell them now!" Still full of excitement, she darted out of the RV to wherever the others were waiting. As far as he could tell, the vehicle was currently inside a warehouse of some sort. Whatever; it would make an adequate hiding place until the time came to utterly fuck up Brockton Bay and get rid of the nagging feeling of dread that he just couldn't get rid of. For a moment, his mind drifted back over the ominous message he'd gotten from the radio. _Nah. Pretty sure I was hearing things._

Drifting off to sleep, he imagined that he heard laughter coming from a very long way away. Despite himself, he shivered.

* * *

 **Empire Eighty-Eight (or the remnants thereof)  
Crusader**

* * *

"I still don't see why we had to meet at _my_ place," Justin groused. He considered himself to have a very good point; while his pay as an Empire cape had been quite impressive (accent on 'had been') he chose to live in an apartment and bank the majority of his income. If he bought the occasional flashy car or motorcycle with it, that was his beeswax. And as nice as the apartment was, it wasn't set up for more than one or two visitors at a time. Having two adults, two kids and a baby crowding into his front room didn't really bode well for his privacy.

"The PRT somehow got hold of Max's phone and they've seized all his assets, including Medhall," Kayden pointed out. "They're almost certainly watching my apartment because I was married to Max. Even if I'm not under threat of arrest, they'll want me to testify against him. At worst, they'll try to take Aster away from me." Justin knew what a bad idea _that_ would be; Kayden took the 'momma bear' archetype and turned it up _past_ eleven. "Rune's parents might just turn us in if we went back there. Alabaster lived in the Medhall building because of his appearance. Theo's got nowhere else to go. Krieg left town, and I'm pretty sure Victor and Othala got arrested at home. Just be glad that Night and Fog chose to stay in Boston."

Justin was definitely glad of that. As useful as Geoff and Dorothy could be in a fight, they were creepy as _fuck_ when it came to socialising. It wasn't that they were unsociable; more like, somehow, they'd read about socialising in a book and were applying it by the numbers. He could swear he'd heard the _exact same conversation_ between them on several occasions, right down to the words and gestures.

"So what's the plan?" He didn't see any point in dragging things out. "Are we rescuing Max and Brad and the rest? Kicking over a new version of the Empire? Folding our tents and disappearing into the night? What?"

Kayden took a deep breath. "We're going hero."

It took a long moment for Justin to get what she'd just said. When he did, he stared at her incredulously. "What? I mean seriously, what? You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."

Sighing, she dragged her hands down her face. "I wish I was, but hear me out." She glanced over at where Theo was changing Aster's diaper. "Max's capture has put all our identities at risk, but mine more than most. If the PRT decides they've got enough proof of me being Purity, _Aster_ is in the firing line. We've got to get out in front of that. I've been trying to turn hero for a little while now, but the PRT's been treating me like I'm still a villain, even though I'm only hitting criminal targets. I'm thinking that maybe if we all show up and declare that we're rebranding as heroes, they'll pull their heads out of their asses and let us _be_ heroes instead of insisting that we're still villains."

"Pfft, as if," jibed Paul. "They want their heroes lily-white, but not in the good way." He flourished his hand, with its unnaturally-pale skin, as an example. "Even if they let us go hero, they'll be watching us like fucking hawks—"

"Language!" snapped Purity, pointing at her baby. "I don't care how much you swear on your own time, but not around Aster."

Paul rolled his eyes, though the effect was somewhat muted due to the fact that they were solid white from side to side. _"Fine._ They'll be watching us like _gosh-darn_ hawks, and if we give them any excuse at all, they'll come down on us like a ton of bricks." Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the wall. Justin was no great shakes at body language, but this was easy to read: _not a hope in hell._

"You really think they'll let us go hero?" asked Cassie, currently using her power to make Justin's salt and pepper shakers orbit her head. "They're usually pretty tight-assed about that sort of thing. I mean, even if I wanted to do it in the first place." If Justin had to guess, she was trying to come across as 'cool and edgy'; to him, it looked more like 'indecisive teenager'.

"It's better than trying to defend the Empire's turf against the ABB and whoever else tries to take it off you," Kayden pointed out. From her phrasing, Justin figured she'd already made the mental shift away from considering herself a part of the Empire. "They've only got a couple of capes, but Lung and Oni Lee are far too hard to put down."

"I've fought Oni Lee," boasted Paul. "He wasn't so tough."

Justin looked him up and down. "Being able to bounce back from whatever damage he does to you isn't the same as beating him. I can see where Kayden's going with this. If we stay as we are, we're the Empire. Four capes against the PRT, the New Wave, the other gangs, the cops. We'd be outnumbered and, I'm sorry to say, outclassed by most everyone out there. Kayden excepted, of course." He'd witnessed Kayden letting loose a couple of times before. Even _buildings_ only afforded visual cover when she was really pissed.

"Oh, you've _got_ to be kidding." Paul's tone was deeply disgusted. "You're gonna go along with it too? Admit defeat? We're the _Empire."_ He shook his head. "We don't back down. We make the _other_ guy back down. First thing, we break the others out of holding. Then we double down, and—"

"No. We don't." Kayden spoke with finality. "When the Empire had over a dozen members in Brockton Bay alone, we called the tune and everyone else walked lightly around us. But now? It's like Justin said. We're outnumbered. We don't even have the resources to pull an effective jailbreak. But if they let us go hero, we've got the PRT and Protectorate nominally on side, as well as New Wave. We don't have to defend territory any more. That frees us up to hit the ABB where it hurts, instead of just defending against incursions."

Paul looked around at everyone. "I can't believe we're just giving up like that. How about out of town members? We could bring them in, use them to get Max and the others loose."

"I tried calling them," Kayden said, her voice low. "The only ones who were interested were Geoff and Dorothy; everyone else gave excuses. And before you ask; they're good, but they're not that good. They can't make up for the lack of Max, Brad, Jessica, Nessa and the others. Which is why I didn't have them come up. They just aren't a good fit as heroes."

"No, you didn't have them come up because you knew they wouldn't even _consider_ going along with this defeatist attitude," snapped Paul. "Justin. Cassie. You know Max would never condone crap like this. The Empire never rolls over and shows its belly. We don't back down; we step up."

"That's easy for you to say," Justin pointed out, feeling a little irritated at the constant push-back the hyper-albino cape was generating. "Even with Othala, the rest of us had to worry about dying before she got to us, and you didn't. If you hadn't noticed, we don't _have_ Othala any more. That's not a problem for you, no matter who you go up against."

"Yeah?" Paul stepped forward aggressively, his hand dropping toward where a pistol hung at his hip. "Well, maybe this situation needs strong leadership instead of pansy whining about what we can't do. You gonna provide it, or do I need to show you who's boss?"

This was rapidly escalating to a point that Justin didn't like. He let his ghost-forms boil out of him, launching forward to tackle Paul to the floor. They couldn't touch his weapons, but they could definitely make sure he couldn't use them. Outnumbered by seven or eight combatants to one, Alabaster fought back. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't harm the ghosts and while he was stronger than any one of them and felt no pain, they had group tactics on their side, and one mind controlling all of them.

The fight, such as it was, was over so fast that Aster hadn't even had time to get agitated. Paul was face-down on the floor with both arms wrenched hard up behind his back. Justin wasn't concerned over doing permanent damage to Paul, but he tried to keep his tone professional. No sense in coming across as gloating and giving Paul even _more_ reason to dislike him. "Paul, give it up. I'm with Kayden on this one. The Empire is finished in Brockton Bay. We're gonna try to make it as heroes, if the PRT will let us. We won't go after you, or Empire rank and file, but if you do attack us we _will_ fight back. And, you know, hand you in."

"Fuck you!" yelled Paul from the floor. Kayden hissed in annoyance, but Paul didn't seem to care any more. "You're all fucking cowards! One setback and you go to jelly! Rune, are you with me? We'll show these pissweak cocksuckers what it means to be _Empire!"_

It was actually a pretty good speech, considering that it was delivered by a man whose face was being pressed into the floor by a bunch of selectively tangible ghosts. It had fire and spirit and a frightening amount of intensity. Reconsidering his choice to let Paul speak, Justin had a ghost clamp its hand over the prone cape's mouth.

"Um." Cassie looked and sounded indecisive. Justin knew her as a true believer; she and Alabaster usually got along well because of that. However, a lot had gone wrong for the Empire in the last few days, and she had to know the backup they usually enjoyed just wasn't there any more. She was useful as transport and as a ranged attacker but without big hitters to distract the enemy, she'd become what Justin privately termed 'skeet'. Alabaster's distraction capability, Justin suspected, wasn't great.

"Cassie, honey." It was Kayden, stepping forward with her hands showing. She wasn't lighting up, which everyone knew was a precursor to her attacking. "You know me. I worked under Max for ten years. I don't back down lightly from _anything._ But this here, this is too much for us. We can't purify Brockton Bay as villains. Not as few as we are now. But we can do it as _heroes."_ Lowering her voice slightly, she sent Cassie a mock-conspiratorial smile. "All we have to do is attack the right targets."

Even knowing Kayden as well as he did, Justin wasn't sure whether she was being genuine or just saying what Cassie needed to hear. Maybe it was a bit of both. She'd most likely learned that off Max; the former leader of the Empire Eighty-Eight was _good_ at that sort of thing.

"Huh." Cassie tilted her head, then looked at Kayden and Justin. "I guess you're right. And I bet I'd make a rockin' hero." She glanced down toward Paul. "What are you gonna do with him? I mean, just because we're gonna be heroes doesn't mean we're gonna just hand him over to the authorities, right? That's kind of a dick move."

"It's not my intention, no." Kayden crouched down next to Alabaster's head. "Paul. Listen to me. If we let you go, are you willing to just walk away? We don't want to fight you, but we will if we have to."

Paul struggled for a moment before Justin had the ghost take its hand away from his mouth. "Fuck you all for being losers," he spat. "But fuck you most of all, _Purity."_ The vehemence in his tone turned the name into a curse. "I thought you were strong. I thought you were a believer. You're nothing but a traitor to the cause."

"I am a believer," she said sadly. "But we believe in different things. You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"What the fuck do you think, bitch?" he retorted, struggling vainly with the ghosts. "I know you're trying to intimidate me, but you don't get it. _I don't fucking intimidate._ What are you gonna do? Kill me?" He laughed harshly. "Good luck with that. It's been tried. Whatever you do to me, I'll come back from. And I'll kill you. I'll kill every one of you. Then I'll get some help from Night and Fog, bust Max out of lockup, and the Empire will go on."

Standing up again, Kayden tilted her head toward the small kitchen area. Justin and Cassie followed her there; while it wasn't really far enough away for privacy, another ghost put its hands over Paul's ears to prevent him from overhearing what was to be said.

"All right," Kayden said, sounding a little upset. "I was hoping he'd see reason, but he just keeps doubling down. Any ideas?"

Justin grimaced. "He's always been a little full-on for me," he admitted. "I don't want to hand him over and I really don't want to kill him, but is there even a third option?" Besides the moral aspect, he wasn't at all sure they could even _succeed_ in killing the unkillable man, and if they tried and failed, he'd be even _more_ angry at them.

"He's really, really pissed off right now." Cassie looked troubled. The salt and pepper shakers, Justin noticed, were back on the table. "I used to think he was cool and all, but wow, he's really going off the deep end, isn't he?" She looked from one adult to the other. "What are we gonna do? What _can_ we do?"

"Well, we've got four options." Justin took a deep breath as the other two turned their attention to him. "One, we let him go. Not ideal, because he knows our secrets, he knows where we live, and he'll come after us as hard as he can. Two, we hand him over to the PRT. Even less ideal, for basically the same reasons. He'll give them everything on us in a heartbeat, just to screw us over. Three, we kill him." The grimace crossed his face again. "I really don't like that one. Executing a comrade in arms, even one who's turned against us, in cold blood? Not what I signed up for."

"And the fourth option?" Kayden glanced into the front room, where Paul was still struggling against the grip of Justin's ghosts.

Justin shrugged. "We keep him prisoner until a better idea shows up." It didn't sound great, but none of the options did.

"So in other words, we do nothing and hope for inspiration to strike." Cassie didn't sound thrilled.

"Yeah."

"Well, crap."

Justin sighed. "Yeah."

* * *

 **Forsberg Gallery**

* * *

Half a dozen antique pianos had been brought in to complement the exhibition of old-time arts and crafts that had culminated in nine anvils leaving the building via the window. Despite this (or perhaps because of it) the exhibition had been a great success, but now it was beginning to wind down. However, the excitement was not quite over.

One of the more stately pieces, a genuine antique pianola that had been trucked in from California, was marvelled at by the crowds who came to view the exhibition. Its flawless appearance, however, concealed a secret; within its polished wooden exterior were eleven chrysalises. The twelfth was empty, its inhabitant having already broken free and left for parts unknown a couple of days before, but the rest were still intact, awaiting the time that they would crack open and release the piano's glorious passengers to the world.

This time was close at hand.

* * *

End of Part Fourteen


End file.
